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A TALE. 



E PICTJKE A]Sr: 


BT 


THOMAS MOOEE ESO 

AUTHOE 01' “ LALLA EOOKH ” BT(’,, ETC. 


(Kbitwir, 

BEVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR, WITH NOTES. 



NEW YORK': 

PUBLISHED BY JAMES MILLER 

(SUCCESSOR TO C. S. FRANCIS & CO.) 

522 BROADWAY. 

1802.’ 



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A 


LETTER TO THE TRANSLATOR, 


FROM 


Esq. 


Cairo, June 19, 1800. 

My dear Sir, 

In a visit lately paid by me to the monastery of St. 
Macarius, — which is situated, as you know, in the Valley 
of the Lakes of Natron, — I was lucky enough to obtain 
possession of a curious Greek manuscript which, in the 
hope that you may be induced to translate it, I herewith 
transmit to you. Observing one of the monks very bu- 
sily occupied in tearing up into a variety of fantastic 
shapes some papers which had the appearance of being 
the leaves of old books, I inquired of him the meaning of 
his task, and received the following explanation : — 

The Arabs, it seems, who are as fond of pigeons as the 
ancient Egyptians, have a superstitious notion that, if 
they place in their pigeon-houses small scraps of paper, 
written over with learned characters, the birds are always 
sure to thrive the better for the charm ; and the monks, 
who are never slow in profiting by superstition, have, at 
all times, a supply of such amulets for purchasers. 

In general, the fathers of the monastery have been in 
the habit of scribbling these fragments themselves ; but a 


IV 


PRELIMINARY NOTICE. 


My original plan, in commencing the story of the 
Epicurean, was to write it all in verse, and in the 
form of letters from the different personages. But 
the great difficulty of managing, in rhyme, the minor 
details of a story, so as to be clear without becoming 
prosaic, and, still more, the diffuse length to which, I 
saw, narration in verse would be likely to run, de- 
terred me from pursuing this plan any further ; and 
I tnen commenced the tale anew, in its present shape. 
Whether I was wrong or right, in this change, mv 
readers may judge for themselves. 



THE EPICUREAN. 


CHAPTER I. '* 

It was in the fourth year of the reign of the late 
Emperor Valerian, that the followers of Epicurus, 
who were at that time numerous in Athens, proceed- 
ed to the election of a person to fill the vacant chair 
of their sect ; — and, by the unanimous voice of the 
School, I was the individual chosen for their Chief. 
I was just then entering on my twenty- fourth year, 
and no instance had ever before occurred of a per- 
son so young being selected for that office. Youth, 
however, and the personal advantages that adorn it, 
wei’e not, it may be supposed, among the least valid 
recommendations to a sect that included within its 
circle all the beauty as well as the wit of Athens, 
and which, though dignifying its pursuits with the 
name of philosophy, was little else than a pretext for 
the more refined cultivation of pleasure. 

The character of the sect had, indeed, much chang- 
ed, since the time of its wise and virtuous founder, 
who, while he asserted that Pleasure is the only Good,, 
inculcated also that Good is the only source of Plea- 
sure. i The purer part of this doctrine had long eva- 
porated, and the temperate Epicurus would have as 
little recognised his own sect in the assemblage of 


8 


THE EPICUREAN. 


refined voluptuaries who now usurped its name, as he 
would have known his own quiet garden in the luxu- 
rious groves and bowers among which the meetings 
of the School were now held. 

Many causes concurred, at this period, besides the 
attractiveness of its doctrines, to render our school 
by far the most popular of any that still survived the 
glory of Greece. It may generally be observed, that 
the prevalence, in one half of a community, of very 
rigid notions on the subject of religion, produces the 
opposite extreme of laxity and infidelity in the other ; 
and this kind of reaction it was that now mainly 
contributed to render the doctrines of the Garden the 
most fashionable philosophy of the day. The rapid 
progress of the Christian faith had alarmed all those, 
who, either from piety or worldliness, were interest- 
ed in the continuance of the old established creed — • 
all who believed in the Deities of Olympus, and all 
who lived by them. The consequence was, a consi- 
derable increase of zeal and activity, throughout the 
constituted authorities and priesthood of the whole 
Heathen world. What was wanting in sincerity, pf 
belief was made up in rigour; — the weakest parts 
of the Mythology were those, of course, most angrily 
defended, and any reflections, tending to bring Saturn, 
or his wife Ops, into contempt, were punished with 
the utmost severity of the law. 

In this state of affairs, between the alarmed bigotiy 
of the declining Faith, and the simple, sublime aus- 
terity of her rival, it was not wonderful that those 
lovers of ease and pleasure, who had no interest, re- 
versionary or otherwise, in the old religion, and were 
too indolent to inquire into the sanctions of the new, 
should take refuge from the severities of both in the 
arms of a luxurious philosophy, which, leaving to 
others the task of disputing about the future, cen- 
tred all its wisdom in the full enjoyment of the present. 

The sectaries of the Garden had, ever since the 
death of their founder, been accustomed to dedicate 


PRELIMINARY NOTICE, 


BY THE AUTHOR. 


To introduce thus, by a new preface, to my read- 
ers, a work which has been for so many years before 
the public, and which, however undeserving of such 
notice, has been translated into most of the languages 
of Europe,* may be regarded as rather an unneces- 
sary ceremony. Some circumstances, however, con- 
nected with this new edition, seem to require from 
me a few prefatory words. The idea of calling in 
the magic pencil of Mr. Turner, to illustrate some of 
the scenes of the following story, was first suggested 
by the late Mr. Macrone, — to whose general talents 
and enterprising spirit all who knew him will bear 
ready and cordial testimony. His original wish had 
been that I should undertake for him some new poem, 
or story, to be thus embellished by the artist. But 
other tasks and ties having rendered my compliance 
with this wish impracticable, he proposed to purchase 
of me the copyright of the Epicurean, for a single 
“ illustrated” edition ; and hence the appearance of 
the work under its present new auspices and form.f 

♦ Among the translations which have reached me are two in 
French, one in Italian (Milan, 1836, 24mo, — Venice, 1835,) one in 
German 1(Inspruc, 1828,) and one in Dutch. 

t The London edition, from which this is taken, is illustrated by 
four beautiful engravings from Turner, 


( Vi ) 

discovery lately made by them, saves all this trouble. 
Having dug up (as my informant stated) a chest of old 
manuscripts, which, being chiefly on the subject of alche- 
my, must have been buried in the time of Droclesian, 
“ we thought,” added the monk, “ that we could not em- 
ploy such rubbish more properly, than in tearing it up, as 
you see, for the pigeon-houses of the Arabs.” 

On my expressing a wish to rescue some part of these 
treasures from the fate to which his indolent fraternity 
had consigned them, he produced the manuscript which I 
have now the pleasure of sending you, — the only one, he 
said, remaining entire, — and I very readily paid the price 
which he demanded for it. 

You will find the story, I think, not altogether unin- 
teresting ; and the coincidence, in many respects, of the 
curious details in Chap. VI. with the description of the 
same ceremonies in the Romance of Sethos* will, I have 
no doubt, strike you. Hoping that you may be induced 
to give a translation of this Tale to the world, 

1 am, my dear Sir, 

Very truly yours. 


* The description, here alluded to, may also be found, copied verbatim from* 
Sethos, in the “ Voyages d’Antenor.”— In that philosophical romance, called ‘La 
Vie de Sethos,’ ” says Warburton, “ we find a much juster account of old 
Egyptian wisdom, than in all the pretended ‘ Histoire du Ciel.’ ” Div(. Leg. 
book iv. sect. 14. 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


9 


to his memory the twentieth day of every month. 
To these monthly rites had, for some time, been add- 
ed a grand annual Festival, in commemoration of his 
birth. The feasts, given on this occasion by my pre- 
decessors in the Chair, had been invariably distin- 
guished for their taste and splendour ; and it was my 
ambition, not merely to imitate this example, but 
even to render the anniversary now celebrated under 
my auspices, so brilliant as to efface the recollection 
of all that had preceded it. 

Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a 
scene. The grounds that formed the original site of 
the Garden, had received, from time to time, consider- 
able additions ; and the whole extent was now laid 
out with that perfect taste, which understands how 
to wed Nature with Art, without sacrificing any of 
her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, leading through 
wildernesses of shade and fragrance — ^glades, open- 
ing, as if to afford a play-ground for the sublime — 
temples, rising on the very spots where Imagination 
herself would have called them up, and fountains 
and lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wan- 
tonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its 
embrace, — such was the variety of feature that di- 
versified these fair gardens ; and, animated as they 
were on this occasion, by all the living wit and love- 
liness of Athens, it afforded a scene such as my own 
youthful fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxury 
and beauty could hardly have anticipated. 

The ceremonies of the day began with the very 
dawn, when, according to the form of simpler and 
better times, those among the disciples who had 
apartments within the Garden, bore the image of our 
Founder in procession from chamber to chamber, 
chanting verses in praise of what had long ceased 
to be objects of our imitation — his frugality and 
temperance. 

Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of the Gar- 
den, stood four white Doric temples, in one of which 


10 


THE EPICUREAN. 


was collected a library containing all the flowers of 
Grecian literature ; while, in the remaining three, 
Conversation, the Song, and the Dance, held, unin- 
terrupted by each other, their respective rites. In 
the Library stood busts of all the most illustrious 
Epicureans, both of Rome and Greece — Horace, 
Atticus, Pliny the elder, the poet Lucretius, Lucian, 
and the lamented biographer of the Philosophers, 
lately lost to us, Diogenes Laertius. There were also 
the portraits, in marble, of all the eminent female vo- 
taries of the School — Leontium, and her fair daugh- 
ter Danae, Themista, Philaenis, and others. 

. It was here that, in my capacity of Heresiarch, on 
the morning of the Festival, I received the felicita- 
tions of the day from some of the fairest lips of 
Athens ; and, in pronouncing the customary oration 
to the memory of our Master, (in which it was usual 
to dwell upon the doctrines he had inculcated,) en- 
deavoured to attain that art, so useful before such an 
audience, of lending to the gravest subjects a charm 
which secures them listeners even among the simplest 
and most volatile. 

Though study, as may be supposed, engrossed 'but 
little the nights or mornings of the Garden, yet all 
the lighter parts of learning — that portion of its attic 
honey, for which the bee is not compelled to go very 
deep into the flower — was rather zealously cultivated 
by us. Even here, however, the young student had 
to encounter that kind of distraction, which is, of all 
others, the least favourable to composure of thought; 
and, with more than one of my fair disciples, there 
used to occur such scenes as the following, which a 
poet of the Garden, taking his picture from the life, 
thus described : — 


“ As o’er the lake, in evening’s glow, 

That temple threw its lengthening shade 
Upon the marble steps below 

There sat a fair Corinthian maid, 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


11 


Gracefully o’er some volume bending ; 

While, by her side, the youthful sage 
Held back her ringlets, lest, descending, 
They should o’ershadow all the page.” 


But it was for the evening of that day, that the 
richest of our luxuries were reserved. Every part 
of the Garden was illuminated with the most skilful 
variety of lustre ; while over the lake of the Tem- 
ples were scattered wreaths of flowers, through 
which boats, filled with beautiful children, floated, 
as through a liquid parterre. 

Between two of these boats a mock combat was 
perpetually carried on ; — their respective command- 
ers, two blooming youths, being habited to represent 
Eros and Anteros ; the former, the Celestial Love of 
the Platonists, and the latter, that more earthly spi- 
rit, which usurps the name of Love among the Epi- 
cureans. Throughout the whole evening their con- 
flict was maintained with various success ; the timid 
distance at which Eros kept aloof from his lively 
antagonist, being his only safeguard against those 
darts of fire, with showers of which the other as- 
sailed him, but which, falling short of their mark upon 
the lake, only scorched the few flowers on which they 
fell, and were extinguished. 

In another part of the Garden, on a wide glade, 
illuminated only by the moon, was performed an 
imitation of the torch-race of the Panathensea, by 
young boys chosen for their fleetness, and arrayed 
with wings, like Cupids ; while, not far off, a group 
of seven nymphs, with each a star on her forehead, 
represented the movements of the planetary choir, 
and embodied the dream of Pythagoras into real 
motion and song. 

At every turning some new enchantment broke 
unexpectedly on the eye or ear ; and now, from the 
depth of a' dark grove, from which a fountain at the 
same time issued, there came a strain of sweet mu- 
sic, which mingling with the murmur of the water, 


12 


THE EPICUREAN. 


seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over 
its flow ; — while, at other times, the same strain ap- 
peared to come breathing from among flowers, or 
was heard suddenly from under ground, as if the 
foot had just touched some spring that set its melody 
in motion. 

It may seem strange that I should now dwell upon 
all these trifling details ; but they were, to me, full of 
the future ; and every thing connected with that me- 
morable night — even its long-repented follies — must 
for ever live fondly and sacredly in my memory. 
The festival concluded with a banquet, at which, as 
master of the Sect, I presided ; and being, myself, in 
every sense, the ascendant spirit of the whole scene, 
gave life to all around me, and saw my own happi- 
ness reflected in that of others. 


CHAPTER II. 

The festival was over ; — the sounds of the song 
and dance had ceased, and I was now left in those 
luxurious gardens, alone. Though so ardent and ac- 
tive a votary of pleasure, I had, by nature, a dispo- 
sition full of melancholy ; — an imagination that, even 
in the midst of mirth and happiness, presented sad- 
dening thoughts, and threw the shadow of the future 
over the gayest illusions of the present. Melancholy 
was, indeed, twin- born in my soul with Passion ; and 
not even in the fullest fervour of the latter, were 
they ever separated. From the first moment that I 
was conscious of thought and feeling, the same dark 
thread had run across the web ; and images of death 
and annihilation came to mingle themselves with even 


THE EPICUREAN. 


13 


the most smiling scenes through which love and en- 
joyment led me. My very passion for pleasure but 
deepened these gloomy thoughts. For, shut out, as 
I was by my creed, from a future life, and having no 
hope beyond the narrow horizon of this, every mi- 
nute of earthly delight assumed, in my eyes, a mourn- 
ful preciousness ; and pleasure, like the flower of the 
cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the neigh- 
bourhood of death. 

This very night my triumph, my happiness had 
seemed complete. I had been the presiding genius 
of that voluptuous scene. Both my ambition and 
my love of pleasure had drunk deep of the rich cup 
for which they thirsted. Looked up to, as I was, by 
the learned, and loved by the beautiful and the young, 
I had seen, in every eye that met mine, either the ac- 
knowledgment of bright triumphs already won, or 
the promise of others, still brighter, that awaited me. 
Yet, even in the midst of all this, the same dark 
thoughts had presented themselves ; — the perishable- 
ness of myself and all around me had every instant 
recurred to my mind. Those hands I had pressed — 
those eyes, in which I had seen sparkling a spirit of 
light and life that should never die, those voices, that 
had talked of eternal love — all, all, I felt, were but a 
mockery of the moment, and would leave nothing 
eternal but the silence of their dust ! 


Oh, were it not for this sad voice 
Stealing amid our mirth to say, 

That all, in which we most rejoice. 

Ere night may be the earth-worm’s prey ; — 

But for this bitter — only this — 

Full as the world is brimm’d with bliss, 

And capable as feels my soul 
Of draining to its depth the whole, 

I should turn earth to heaven, and be, 
bliss made gods, a deity ! 

Such was the description I gave of my own feelings, 
in one of those wild, passionate songs, to which this 
2 


14 THE EPICUREAN. 

mixture of gaiety and melancholy, in a spirit so buoy- 
ant, naturally gave birth. 

And seldom had my heart surrendered itself to this 
sort of vague sadness more unresistingly than at the 
present moment, Avhen, as I paced thoughtfully among 
the fading lights and flowers of the banquet, the 
echo of my own step was all that now sounded, 
where so many gay forms had lately been revelling. 
The moon was still up, the morning had not yet glim- 
mered, and the calm glories of night still rested on 
all around. Unconscious whither my pathway led, 
I wandered along, till I, at length, found myself be- 
fore that fair statue of Venus, with which the chisel 
of Alcamenes had embellished our Garden ; — that 
image of deified woman, the only idol to which I had 
ever yet bent the knee. Leaning against the pedes- 
tal of the statue, I raised my eyes to heaven, and fix- 
ing them sadly and intently on the ever-burning stars, 
as if I sought to read the mournful secret in their 
light, asked, wherefore was it that Man alone must 
fade and perish, while they, so much less wonderful, 
less godlike than he, thus still live on in radiance un- 
changeable and for ever ! — “ Oh, that there were 
some spell, some talisman,” I exclaimed, “ to make the 
spirit that burns within us deathless as those stars, 
and open to it a career like theirs, burning and inex- 
tinguishable throughout all time !” 

While thus indulging in wild and melancholy fan- 
cies, I felt that lassitude which earthly pleasure, how- 
ever sweet, leaves behind — come insensibly over me, 
and at length sunk at the base of the statue to sleep. 

But even in sleep, the same fancies still haunted 
me ; and a dream, so distinct and vivid as to leave 
behind it the impression of reality, thus presented it- 
self to my mind.i I found myself suddenly trans- 
ported to a wide and desolate plain, where nothing 
appeared to breathe, or move, or live. The very 
sky that hung above it looked pale and extinct, giv- 
ing the idea, not of darkness, but of light that had 


THE EPICUREAN. 


15 


died; — and had that whole region been the remains 
of some older world, left broken up and sunless, it 
could not have presented an aspect more dead and 
desolate. The only thing that bespoke life, through- 
out this melancholy waste, was a small spark of light, 
that at first glimmered in the distance, but, at length, 
slowly approached the bleak spot where I stood. As 
it drew nearer, I could see that its small, but steady, 
gleam came from a taper in the hand of an ancient 
and venerable man, who now stood, like a pale mes- 
senger from the grave, before me. After a few mo- 
ments of awful silence, during which he looked at 
me with a sadness that thrilled my very soul, he said, 
“ Thou, who seekest eternal life, go unto the shores 
of the dark Nile — ^go unto the shores of the dark 
Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest !” 

No sooner had he uttered these words, than the 
deathlike hue of his cheek at once brightened into a 
smile of more than human promise ; while the small 
torch he held in his hand sent forth a glow of radi- 
ance, by which suddenly, the whole surface of the 
desert was illuminated ; — the light spreading even as 
far as the distant horizon’s edge, along whose line 
were now seen gardens, palaces, and spires, all as 
bright as the rich architecture of the clouds at sun- 
set. Sweet music, too, came floating in every direc- 
tion, through the air, and, from all sides, such varie- 
ties of enchantment broke upon me, that, with the 
excess alike of harmony and of radiance, I awoke. 

That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly 
neither unusual nor strange. A belief in superhuman 
agency seems natural and necessary to the mind ; 
and, if not suffered to flow in the obvious channels, 
it will finfil a vent in some other. Hence, many who 
have doubted the existence of a God, have yet im- 
plicitly placed themselves under the patronage of 
Fate or the stars. Much the same inconsistency I 
was conscious of in my own feelings. Though re- 
jecting all belief in a Divine Providence, I had yet a 


16 


the epicurean. 


faith in dreams, that all my philosophy could not con- 
quer. Nor was experience wanting to confirm me 
in my delusion ; for, by some of those accidental co- 
incidences, which make the fortune of soothsayers and 
prophets, dreams, more than once, had been to me 

Oracles, truer far than oak 

Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. 

It was not wonderful, therefore, that the vision of 
that night — touching, as it did, a chord so ready to 
vibrate — should have affected me with more than or- 
dinary power, and even sunk deeper into my memory 
with every effort I made to forget it. In vain was 
it that I mocked at my own weakness ; — such self- 
derision is seldom sincere. In vain did I pursue my 
accustomed pleasures. Their zest wasj as usual, for 
ever new ; but still, in the midst of all my enjoyment, 
came the cold and saddening consciousness of mor- 
tality, and, along with it, the recollection of this vi- 
sionary promise, to which my fancy, in defiance of 
reason, still continued to cling. 

At times, indulging in reveries, that were little else 
than a continuation of my dream, I even contem- 
plated the possible existence of some mighty secret, 
by which our youth, if not perpetuated, might be at 
least prolonged, and that dreadful vicinity of death, 
within whose circles love pines and pleasure sickens, 
might be for a while averted. “Who can tell,” I 
would ask, “ but that in Egypt, that region of won- 
ders, where Mystery hath yet unfolded but half her 
treasures, — where still remain, undeciphered, upon 
the pillars of Seth, so many written secrets of the 
antediluvian world — who knows but that some pow- 
erful charm, some amulet, may there lie hid, whose 
discovery, as this phantom hath promised, but awaits 
my coming, — some compound of the same pure atoms, 
that shine in the living stars, and whose infusion into 
the frame of man, might render him also unfading 
and immortal T 


THE EPICUREAN. 


17 


Thus did I sometimes speculate, in those fond, 
rambling moods, when the life of excitement in which 
I was engaged, acting upon a warm heart and vivid 
fancy, produced an intoxication of spirit, during 
which I was not wholly master of myself. I felt this 
bewilderment, too, not a little increased by the con- 
stant struggle between my own natural feelings, and 
the cold, mortal creed of my sect — in endeavouring 
to escape from whose deadening bondage I but broke 
loose into the realms of fantasy and romance. 

Even in my calmest and soberest moments, how- 
ever, that strange vision for ever haunted me ; and 
every effort I made to chase it from my recollection 
was unavailing. The deliberate conclusion, therefore, 
to which I came at last„,was, that to visit Egypt was 
now my only resource ; that, without seeing that 
land of wonders, I could not rest, nor, until convin- 
ced of my folly by disappointment, be reasonable. 
Without delay, accordingly, I announced to my 
friends of the Garden, the intention I had formed to 
pay a visit to the land of Pyramids. To none of them, 
however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary 
impulse that actuated me ; — knowledge being the ob- 
ject that I alleged, while, pleasure was that for which 
they gave me credit. The interests of the School, it 
was feared, might suffer by my absence ; and there 
were some tenderer ties, which had still more to fear 
from separation. But for the former inconvenience 
a temporary remedy was provided ; while the latter 
a skilful distribution of vows and sighs alleviated. 
Being furnished with recommendatory letters to all 
parts of Egypt, I set sail in the summer of the year 
257, A. D., for Alexandria. 


2 * 


18 


THE EPICUREAN. 


CHAPTER III. 

To one, who so well knew how to extract pleasure 
from every moment on land, a sea- voyage, however 
smooth and favourable, appeared the least agreeable 
mode of losing time that could be devised. Often in- 
deed did my imagination, in passing some isle of 
those seas, people it with fair forms and loving hearts, 
to which most willingly would I have paused to offer 
homage. But the wind blew direct towards the land 
of Mystery ; and, still more, I heard a voice within 
me, whispering for ever, “ On.” 

As we approached the coast of Egypt,* our course 
became less prosperous ; and we had a specimen of 
the benevolence of the divinities of the Nile, in the 
shape of a storm, or rather whirlwind, which had 
nearly sunk our vessel, and which the Egyptians on 
board declared to be the work of their deity Typhon. 
After a day and night of danger, during which we 
were driven out of our course to the eastward, some 
benigner influence prevailed above ; and, at length, 
as the morning freshly broke, we saw the beautiful 
city of Alexandria rising from the sea, with its proud 
Palace of Kings, its portico of four hundred columns, 
and the fair Pillar of Pillars,^ towering in the midst 
to heaven. 

After passing in review this splendid vision, we 
shot rapidly round the Rock of Pharos, and in a few 
minutes found ourselves in the harbour of Eunostus. 
The sun had risen, but the light on the Great Tower 
of the Rock was still burning ; and there was a lan- 
gour in the first waking movements of that volup- 
tuous city — whose houses and temples lay shining in 


THE EPICUREAN. 


19 


silence around the harbour — that sufficiently attested 
the festivities of the preceding night. 

We were soon landed on the quay ; and, as I walk- 
ed through a line of palaces and shrines, up the street 
which leads from the sea to the Gate of Canopus, 
fresh as I was from the contemplation of my own 
lovely Athens, I yet felt a glow of admiration at the 
scene around me, which its novelty, even more than 
its magnificence, inspired. Nor were the luxuries and 
delights, which such a city promised, among the least 
of the considerations upon which my fancy dwelt. 
On the contrary, every thing around me seemed pro- 
phetic of love and pleasure. The veiy forms of the 
architecture, to my Epicurean imagination, appeared 
to call up images of living grace ; and even the dim 
seclusion of the temples and groves, spoke only of 
tender mysteries to my mind. As the whole bright 
scene grew animated around me, I felt that though 
Egypt might not enable me to lengthen life, she could 
teach the next best art, that of multiplying its en- 
joyments. 

The population of Alexandria, at this period, con- 
sisted of the most motley miscellany of nations, reli- 
gions, and sects, that had ever been brought together 
in one city. Beside the school of the Grecian Pla- 
tonist was seen the oratory of the cabalistic Jew ; 
while the church of the Christian stood, undisturbed, 
over the crypts of the Egyptian Hierophant. Here, 
the adorer of Fire, from the East, laughed at the less 
elegant superstition of the worshipper of Cats from 
the West. Here Christianity, too, had learned to 
emulate the pious vagaries of Paganism ; and while, 
on one side, her Ophite professor was seen bending 
his knee gravely before a serpent, on the other was 
heard a Nicosian contending, with no less gravity, 
that there was no chance whatever of salvation out 
of the pale of the Greek alphabet. Still worse, the 
uncharitableness of Christian schism was already, 
with equal vigour, distinguishing itself ; and I heard 


20 


THE EPICUREAN. 


every where, on my arrival, of the fierce rancour 
and hate with which the Greek and Latin church- 
men were then persecuting each other, because, for- 
sooth, the one fasted on the seventh day of the week, 
and the others fasted upon the fourth and sixth P 

To none, however, of these different creeds and 
sects, except in as far as they furnished food for ri- 
dicule, had I time to pay much attention. I was now 
in the most luxurious city of the universe, and gave 
way, without reserve, to the various seductions that 
surrounded me. My reputation, both as a philosopher 
and a man of pleasure, had preceded my coming ; 
and Alexandria, the second Athens of the world, wel- 
comed me as her own. I found my celebrity, indeed, 
act as a talisman, that opened all hearts and doors at 
my approach. The usual novitiate of acquaintance 
was dispensed wdth in my favour, and not only inti- 
macies, but kves and friendships, ripened as rapidly 
in my path, as vegetation springs up where the Nile 
has flowed. The dark beauty of the Egyptian women 
possessed a novelty in my eyes that enhanced its 
other charms and the hue left by the sun on their 
rounded cheeks, seemed but an earnest of the genial 
ardour he had kindled in their hearts — 

Th’ imbrowning of the fruit that tells, 

How rich within the soul of sweetness dwells. 

Some weeks now passed in such constant and ever- 
changing pleasures, that even the melancholy voice 
deep within my heart, though it still spoke, was but 
seldom listened to, and soon died away in the sound 
of the siren songs that surrounded me. At length, 
as the novelty of these gay scenes wore ofl', the same 
vague and gloomy bodings began to mingle with all 
my joys ; and an incident that occurred, at this time, 
during one of my gayest revels, conduced still more 
to deepen their gloom. 

The celebration of the annual festival of Serapis 
happened to take place during my stay, and I was, 


THE EPICUREAN. 


21 


more than once, induced to join the gay multitudes 
that flocked to the shrine at Canopus on the occa- 
sion. Day and night, as long as this festival lasted, 
the great canal, which led from Alexandria to Cano- 
pus,- was covered with boats full of pilgrims of both 
sexes, all hastening to avail themselves of this pious 
licence, which lent the zest of a religious sanction to 
pleasure, and gave a holiday to the passions and fol- 
lies of earth, in honour of heaven. 

I was returning, one lovely night, to Alexandria. 
The north wind, that welcome visiter, had cooled and 
freshened the air, while the banks, on either side of 
the stream, sent forth, from groves of orange and 
henna, the most delicious odours. As I had left all 
the crowd behind me at Canopus, there was not a 
boat to be seen on the canaf but my own ; and I was 
just yielding to the thoughts which solitude at such 
an hour inspires, when my reveries were suddenly 
broken by the sound of some female voices, coming 
mingled with laughter and screams, from the garden 
of a pavilion, that stood, brilliantly illuminated, upon 
the bank of the canal. 

On rowing nearer, I perceived that both the mirth 
and the alarm had been caused by the efforts of some 
playful girls to reach a hedge of jasmine which grew 
near the water, and in bending towards which they 
had nearly fallen into the stream. Hastening to prof- 
fer my assistance, I soon recognised the voice of one 
of my fair Alexandrian friends, and, springing on the 
bank, was surrounded by the whole group, who in- 
sisted on my joining their party in the pavilion, and 
having flung the tendrils of jasmine, which they had 
plucked, around me, led me, no unwilling captive, to 
the banquet- room. 

I found here an assemblage of the very flower of 
Alexandrian society. The unexpectedness of the 
meeting added new zest on both sides ; and seldom 
had I ever felt more enlivened, myself, or contributed 
more successfully to circulate life among others. 


22 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Among the company were some Greek women, 
who, according to the fashion of their country, wore 
veils ; but, as usual, rather to set off than coni'eal 
their beauty, some bright gleams of which were con- 
tinually escaping from under the cloud. There was, 
however, one female, who particularly attracted my 
.attention, on whose head was a chaplet of dark-co- 
loured flowers, and who sat veiled and silent during 
the whole of the banquet. She took no share, I ob- 
served, in what was passing around : the viands and 
the wine went by her untouched, nor did a word 
that was spoken seem addressed to her ear. This 
abstraction from a scene so sparkling with gaiety, 
though apparently unnoticed by any one but myself, 
struck me as mysterious and strange. I inquired of 
my fair neighbour the cause of it, but she looked 
grave and was silent. 

In the mean time, the lyre and th^ cup went 
round ; and a young maid from Athens, as if inspired 
by the presence of her countryman, took her lute, 
and sung to it some of the songs of Greece, with a 
warmth of feeling that bore me back to the banks of 
the Ilissus, and even in the bosom of present plea- 
sure, drew a sigh from my heart for that which had 
passed away. It was daybreak ere our delighted 
party rose, and most unwillingly re-embarked to re- 
turn to the city. 

We were scarce afloat, when it was discovered 
that the lute of the young Athenian had been left 
behind ; and, with a heart still full of its sweet sounds, 
I most readily sprang on shore to seek it. I hasten- 
ed at once to the banquet-room, which was now dim 
and solitary, except that — there, to my astonishment, 
was still seated that silent figure, which had awaken- 
ed my curiosity so strongly during the night. A vague 
feeling of awe came over me, as I now slowly ap- 
proached it. There was no motion, no sound of 
breathing in that form ; — not a leaf of the dark chap- 
let upon its brow stirred. By the light of a dying 


THE EPICUREAN. 


23 


lamp which sto^d before the figure, I raised, with a 
hesitating hand, the veil, and saw — what my fancy 
had already anticipated — that the shape underneath 
was lifeless, was a skeleton ! Startled and shocked, I 
hurried back with the lute to the boat, and was al- 
most as silent as that shape itself during the remain- 
der of the voyage. 

This custom among the Egyptians of placing a 
mummy, or skeleton, at the banquet-table, had been 
fox some time disused, except at particular ceremo- 
nies ; and, even on such occasions, it had been the 
practice of the luxurious Alexandrians to disguise 
this memorial of mortality in the manner just de- 
scribed. But to me, who was wholly unprepared for 
such a spectacle, it gave a shock from which my 
imagination did not speedily recover. This silent 
and ghastly witness of mirth seemed to imbody, as it 
were, the shadow in my own heart. The features 
of the grave were thus stamped upon the idea that 
had long haunted me, and this picture of what t was 
to he, now associated itself constantly with the sunni- 
est aspect of what I was. 

The memory of the dream now recurred to me 
more livelily than ever. The bright, assuring smile 
of that venerable Spirit, and his words, “Go to. the 
shores of the dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eter- 
nal life thou seekest,” were for ever before my mind. 
But as yet, alas, I had done nothing towards realizing 
the proud promise. Alexandria was not Egypt ; — 
the very soil on which it now stood was not in exist- 
ence, when already Thebes and Memphis had num- 
bered ages of glory. 

“No;” I exclaimed, “beneath the Pyramids of 
iklemphis, or in the mystic Halls of the Labyrinth, 
can I alone hope to find those holy arcana of science, 
of which the antediluvian world has made Egypt its 
heir, and among which — blest thought ! — the key to 
eternal life may lie.” 


24 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Having formed my determination, I took leave of 
my many Alexandrian friends, and departed for Mem- 
phis. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Egypt was, perhaps, the country beyond all others, 
from that mixture of the melancholy and the volup- 
tuous, which marked the character of her people, 
her religion, and her scenery, to affect deeply a fancy 
and temperament like mine, and keep both for ever 
tremblingly alive. Wherever I turned, I beheld the 
desert and the garden, mingling together their deso- 
lation and bloom. I saw the love-bower and the 
tomb standing side by side, as if, in that land. Plea- 
sure and Death kept hourly watch upon each other. 
In the very luxury of the climate there was the same 
saddening influence. The monotonous splendour of 
the days, the solemn radiance of the nights — all 
tended to cherish that ardent melancholy, the offspring 
of passion and of thought, which had been so long 
the familiar inmate of my soul. 

When I sailed from Alexandria, the inundation of 
the Nile was at its full. The whole valley of Egypt 
lay covered by its flood : and, as, looking around me, 
I saw in the light of the setting sun, shrines, palaces, 
and monuments, encircled by the waters, I could al- 
most fancy that I beheld the sinking island of Ata- 
lantis, on the last evening its temples were visible 
above the wave. Such varieties, too, of animation 
as presented themselves on every side ! — 

While, far as sight could reach, beneath as clear 
And blue a heaven as ever bless’d this sphere, 

Gardens, and pillar’d streets, and porphyry domes, 

And high-built temples, fit to be the homes 


THE EPICUREAN. 


25 


Of mighty Gods, — and pyramids, whose hour 
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower ! 

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make 
One theatre of this vast peopled lake, 

-Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives 
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. 

Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave 
Ascending, in procession slow and grave. 

Priests, in white garments, go, with sacred wands 
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands : 

While, there, rich barks — fresh from those sunny tracts 
Far olF, beyond the sounding cataracts — 

Glide with their precious lading to the sea. 

Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros’ ivory. 

Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains 
Of gold, wash’d down by Abyssinian rains. 

Here, where the waters wind into a bay 
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way 
To Sais or Bubastus, among beds 
Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads,5 
Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower. 

Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour ; 

While haply, not far olf, beneath a bank 
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank 
Is play’d in the cool current by a train 
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she, whose chain. 

Around two conquerors of the world was cast. 

But, for a third too feeble, broke at last ! 

Enchanted with the whole scene, I lingered de- 
lightedly on my voyage, visiting all those luxurious 
and venerable places, whose names have been con- 
secrated by the wonder of ages. At Sais I was pre- 
sent during her Festival of Lamps, and read, by the 
blaze of innumerable lights, those sublime words on 
the Temple of Neitha : — “ I am all that has been, 
t’ at is, and that will be, and no man hath ever lifted 
my veil.”® I wandered among the prostrate obelisks 
of Heliopolis,^ and saw, not without a sigh, the sun 
smiling over her ruins, as if in mockery of the mass 
of perishable grandeur, that had once called itself, in 
its pride, “ The City of the Sun.” But to the Isle of 
the Golden Venus, was, I own, my favourite pilgrim- 
age f — and there, as I rambled through its shades, 

3 


26 


THE EPICUREAN. 


where bowers are the only temples, I felt how far 
more worthy to form the shrine of a Deity are the ever- 
living stems of the garden and the grove, than the most 
stately columns that the inanimate quarry can supply. 

Every where new pleasures, new interests, await- 
ed me ; and though Melancholy stood, as usual, for 
ever near, her shadow fell but half-way over my va- 
grant path, leaving the rest but more welcomely bril- 
liant from the contrast. To relate my various adven- 
tures, during this short voyage, would only detain me 
from events, far, far more worthy of record. Amidst 
all this endless variety of attractions, the great object 
of my journey had been forgotten ; — the mysteries 
of this land of the sun still remained, to me, as much 
mysteries as ever, and as yet I had been initiated in 
nothing but its pleasures. . 

It was not till that memorable evening, when I first 
stood before the Pyramids of Memphis, and beheld 
them towering aloft, like the watch-towers of Time, 
from whose summit, when about to expire, he will 
take his last look, — it was not till this moment that 
the great secret announced in my dream, again rose 
in ail its inscrutable darkness upon my thoughts. 
There was a solemnity in the sunshine resting upon 
those monuments — a stillness, as of reverence, in the 
air that breathed around them, which stole, like the 
music of past times, into my heart. I thought what 
myriads of the wise, the beautiful, and the brave, 
had sunk into dust since earth first saw those won- 
ders ; and, in the sadness of my soul, I exclaimed, — 
“ Must man alone, then, perish ? must minds and 
hearts be annihilated, while pyramids endure ? Oh, 
Death, Death ! even upon these everlasting tablets — 
the only approach to immortality that kings them- 
selves could purchase — thou hast written our doom, 
awfully and intelligibly, saying — ‘ There is for man 
no eternal mansion but the grave !’ ” 

My heart sunk at the thought ; and, for the mo- 
fnent, I yielded to that desolate feeling, which over- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


27 


spreads the soul that hath no light from the future. 
But again the buoyancy of my nature prevailed, and 
again, the willing dupe of vain dreams, I deluded 
myself into the belief of all that my heart wished, 
with that happy facility which enables imagination 
to stand in the place of happiness. “ Yes,” I cried, 
“ immortality be within man’s reach; and, as 
wisdom alone is worthy of such a blessing, to the 
wise alone must the secret have been revealed. It is 
said, that deep under yonder pyramid, has lain for 
ages concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the 
Thrice-Great Hermes, in times before the flood, en- 
graved the secret of Alchemy, which gives gold at 
will.^ Why, then, may not the mightier, the more 
god-like secret, that gives life at will, be recorded 
there also ? It was by the power of gold, of endless 
gold, that the kings, who now repose in those massy 
structures, scooped earth to its very centre, and rais- 
ed quarries into the air, to provide for themselves 
tombs that might outstand the world. Who can tell 
but that the gift of immortality was also theirs ? 
who knows but that they themselves, triumphant 
over decay, are still living ; — those mighty mansions, 
which we call tombs, being rich and everlasting pa- 
laces, within whose depths, concealed from this with- 
ering world, they still wander, with the few elect 
who have been sharers of their gift, through a sunless 
but ever-illuminated elysium of their own? Else, 
wherefore those structures ? wherefore that subter- 
ranean realm, by which the whole valley of Egypt 
is undermined ? Why, else, those labyrinths, which 
none of earth hath ever beheld — ^which none of hea- 
ven, except that God, who stands with finger on his 
hushed lip,* hath ever trodden ?” 


* “ Enfin Harpocrates representoit aussi le soleil. II est vrai que 
c’etoit le Dieu du silence ; il mettoit le doigt sur la bouche parce qu’on 
adoroit le soleil avec un respectueux silence, et c’est de la qu’est 
venu le Sig6 des Basilidiens, qui tiroient leur origine de I’Egypte.” — 
Beausobre 


28 


THE EPICUREAN. 


While thus I indulged in fond dreams, the sun, al- 
ready half sunk beneath the horizon, was taking, 
calmly and gloriously, his last look of the Pyramids, 
as he had done, evening after evening, for ages, till 
they had become familiar to him as the earth itself. 
On the side turned to his ray they now presented a 
front of dazzling whiteness,^® while, on the other, 
their great shadows, lengthening away to the east- 
ward, looked like the first steps of Night hastening 
to envelop the hills of Araby in her shade. 

No sooner had the last gleam of the sun disappear- 
ed, than, on every house-top in Memphis, gay, gilded 
banners were seen waving aloft, to proclaim his set- 
ting, — while, at the same moment, a full burst of har- 
mony was heard to peal from all the temples along 
the’ shores. 

Startled from my musing by these sounds, I at 
once recollected, that, on that very evening, the great 
Festival of the Moon was to be celebrated. On a 
little island, half-way over between the gardens of 
Memphis and the eastern shore, stood the temple of 
that goddess, 

whose beams 

Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams. 

Not the cold Dian of the North, who chains 
In vestal ice the current of young veins ; 

But she, who haunts the gay, Bubastian grove, 

And owns she sees, from her bright heav’n above. 

Nothing on earth, to match that heav’n, but love 

Thus did I exclaim, in the words of one of their 
own Egyptian poets, as, anticipating the various de- 
lights of the festival, I cast away from my mind all 
gloomy thoughts, and, hastening to my little bark, in 
which I now lived the life of a Nile-bird, on the 
waters, steered my course to the island-temple of 
the Moon. 


THE EPICUREAN, 


29 


CHAPTER V. 

The rising of the Moon, slow and majestic, as if 
conscious of the honours that awaited her upon earth, 
was welcomed with a loud acclaim from every emi- 
nence, where multitudes stood watching for her first 
light. And seldom had that light risen upon a more 
beautiful scene. The city of Memphis, — still grand, 
though no longer the unrivalled Memphis, that had 
borne away from Thebes the crown of supremacy, 
and worn it undisputed through ages, — now, softened 
by the mild moonlight that harmonized with her de- 
cline, shone forth among her lakes, her pyramids, 
and her shrines, like a dream of human glory that 
must ere long pass away. Even already ruin was 
visible around her. The sands of the Libyan desert 
were gaining upon her like a sea ; and among soli- 
tary columns and sphinxes, already half sunk from 
sight. Time seemed to stand waiting till all that now 
flourished around him should fall beneath his deso- 
lating hand, like the rest. 

On the waters all was life and gaiety. As far as 
eye could reach, the lights of innumerable boats 
were seen studding, like rubies, the surface of the 
stream. Vessels of eveiy kind, — from the light cora- 
cle,^^ built for shooting down the cataracts, to the 
large yacht that glides slowly to the sound of flutes — all 
were afloat for this sacred festival, filled with crowds 
of the young and the gay, not only from Memphis 
and Babylon, but from cities still farther removed 
from the festal scene. 

As I approached the island, I could see, glittering 
through the trees on the bank, the lamps of the pil- 
grims hastening to the ceremony. Landing in the 

3 * 


30 


THE EPICUREAN. 


direction which those lights pointed out, I soon join- 
ed the crowd ; and, passing through a long alley of 
sphinxes, whose spangling marble shone out from the 
dark sycamores around them, reached in a short time 
the grand vestibule of the temple, where I found the 
ceremonies of the evening already commenced. 

In this vast hall, which was surrounded by a dou- 
ble range of columns, and lay open overhead to the 
stars of heaven, I saw a group of young maidens, 
moving in a sort of measured step, between walk and 
dance, round a small shrine, upon which stood one 
of those sacred birds, that, on account of the varie- 
gated colour of their wings, are dedicated to the 
worship of the moon.^^ The vestibule was dimly 
lighted, — there being but one lamp of naphtha hung 
on each of the great pillars that encircled it. But, 
having taken my station beside one of those pillars, 
I had a clear view of the young dancers, as in suc- 
cession they passed me. 

The drapery of all was white as snow ; and each 
wore loosely, beneath the bosom, a dark-blue zone, 
or bandelet, studded, like the skies at midnight, with 
small silver stars. Through their dark locks was 
wreathed the white lily of the Nile, — that sacred 
flower being accounted no less welcome to the moon, 
than the golden blossoms of her bean- flower are 
known to be to the sun.^'* As they passed under the 
lamp, a gleam of light flashed from their bosoms, 
which, I could perceive, was the reflection of a small 
mirror, that, in the manner of the women of the 
East, each of the dancers wore beneath her left 
shoulder. 

There was no music to regulate their steps ; but, 
as they gracefully went round the bird on the shrine, 
some, by the beat of the castinet, some, by the shrill 
ring of a sistrum,^^ which they held uplifted in the at- 
titude of their own divine Isis, continued harmoni- 
ously to time the cadence of their feet ; while others, 
at every step, shook a small chain of silver, whose 


TITE EPIC URE AN. 


31 


sound, mingling with those of the castanets and sis- 
trums, produced a wild, but not unpleasing harmony. 

They seemed all lovely ; but there was one — whose 
face the light had not yet reached, so downcast she 
held it, — who attracted, and, at length, riveted all my 
looks and thoughts. I know not why, but there was 
a something in those half- seen features, — a charm 
in the very shadow that hung over their imagined 
beauty, — which took my fancy more than all the out- 
shining loveliness of her companions. So enchanted 
was I by this coy mysteiy, that her alone, of all the 
group, could I either see or think of — her alone I 
watched, as, with the same downcast brow, she glided 
gently and aerially round the altar, as if her pre- 
sence, like that of a spirit, was something to be felt, 
not seen. 

Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud clash of a thou- 
sand cymbals was heard ; — the massy gates of the 
Temple flew open, as if by magic, and a flood of ra- 
diance from the illuminated aisle filled the whole ves- 
tibule ; while, at the same instant, as if the light and 
the sounds were born together, a peal of rich har- 
mony came mingling with the radiance. 

It was then, — by that light, wiiich shone full upon 
the young maiden’s features, as, starting at the sud- 
den blaze, she raised her eyes to the portal and as 
quickly let fall their lids again, — it was then I beheld, 
what even my own ardent imagination, in its most 
vivid dreams of beauty, had never pictured. Not 
Psyche herself, when pausing on the threshold of 
heaven, while its first glories fell on her dazzled lids, 
could have looked more purely beautiful, or blushed 
with a more innocent shame. Often as I had felt the 
power of looks, none had ever entered into my sou] 
so deeply. It was a new feeling — a new sense — ‘ 
coming as suddenly upon me as that radiance into the 
vestibule, and, at once, filling my whole being ; — and 
had that bright vision but lingered another moment 
before my eyes, I should, in my transport, have 


32 


THE EPICUREAN. 


wholly forgotten who I was and where, and thrown 
myself, in prostrate adoration, at her feet. 

But scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard, 
when the sacred bird, which had, till now, been stand- 
ing motionless as an image, spread wide his wings, 
and flew into the Temple ; while his graceful young 
worshippers, with a fleetness like his own, followed, 
— and she, who had left a dream in my heart never 
to be forgotten, vanished along with the rest. As 
she went rapidly past the pillar against which I lean- 
ed, the ivy that encircled it caught in her drapery, 
and disengaged some ornament which fell to the 
ground.^® It was the small mirror which I had seen 
shining on her bosom. Hastily and tremulously I 
picked it up, and hurried to restore it ; — ^but she was 
already lost to my eyes in the crowd. 

In vain did I try to follow ; — the aisles were al- 
ready filled, and numbers of eager pilgrims passed 
towards the portal. But the servants of the Temple 
denied all further entrance, and still, as I presented 
myself, their white wands barred the way. Perplex- 
ed and irritated amidst that crowd of faces, regard- 
ing all as enemies that impeded my progress, I stood 
on tiptoe, gazing into the busy aisles, and with a heart 
beating as I caught, from time to time, a glimpse of 
some spangled zone, or lotus wreath, which led me^to 
fancy that I had discovered the fair object of my 
search. But it was all in vain ; — in every direction, 
files of sacred nymphs were moving, but nowhere 
could I discover the form which alone I sought. 

In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for 
some time, — bewildered with the confusion of faces 
and lights, as well as with the clouds of incense that 
rolled around me, — till, fevered and impatient, I could 
endure it no longer. Forcing my way out of the ves- 
tibule into the cool air, I hurried back through the 
alley of sphinxes to the shore, and flung myself into 
my boat. 

• There lies, to the north of Memphis, a solitary 


THE EPICUREAN. 


33 


lake, 18 (which, at this season, of the year, mingles 
with the rest of the waters.) upon whose shores 
stands the Necropolis or City of the Dead — a place 
of melancholy grandeur, covered over with shrines 
and pyramids, where many a kingly head, proud even 
in death, has lain awaiting through long ages the re- 
surrection of its glories. Through a range of sepul- 
chral grots underneath, the humbler denizens of the 
tomb are deposited, — looking out on each successive 
generation that visits them, with the same face and 
features they wore centuries ago.i® Every plant and 
tree, that is consecrated to death, from the asphodel- 
flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or 
shadow to this place of tombs ; and the only noise 
that disturbs its eternal calm, is the low humming 
sound of the priests at prayer, when a new inhabi- 
tant is added to the silent city. 

It was towards this place of death that, in a mood 
of mind, as usual, half gloomy, half bright, I now, al- 
most unconsciously, directed my bark. The form of 
the young Priestess was continually before me. That 
one bright look of hers, the very remembrance of 
which was worth all the actual smiles of others, never 
for a moment left my mind.’ Absorbed in such 
thoughts, I continued to row on, scarce knowing whi- 
ther I went, till, at length, startled to find myself 
within the shadow of the City of the Dead, I looked 
up, and beheld, rising in succession before me, pyra- 
mid beyond pyramid,^® each towering more loftily 
than the other, — while all were out-topped in gran- 
deur by one, upon whose summit the midnight moon 
appeared to rest as on a pedestal. 

Drawing nearer to the shore, which was suffici- 
ently elevated to raise this silent city of tombs above 
the level of the inundation, I rested my oar, and 
allowed the boat to rock idly upon the water, while, 
left equally without direction, my thoughts fluctuated 
as idly. How various and vague were the dreams 
that then floated through my mind— that bright vi- 


34 


THE EPICUREAN. 


sion of the temple still mingling itself with all I Some- 
times she stood before nfie, like an aerial spirit, as 
pure as if that element of music and light, into which 
she had then vanished, was her only dwelling. Some- 
times, animated with passion, and kindling into a 
creature of earth, she seemed to lean towards me 
with looks of tenderness, which it were worth worlds, 
but for one instant to inspire; and again — as the 
dark fancies, that ever haunted me, recurred — I saw 
her cold, parched, and blackening, amid the gloom of 
those eternal sepulchres before me ! 

Turning away, with a shudder, from the cemetery 
at this thought, I heard the sound of an oar plying 
swiftly through the water, and, in a few moments, 
saw, shooting past me towards the shore, a small boat 
in which sat two female figures, muffled up and veil- 
ed. Having landed them not far from the spot where, 
under the shadow of a tomb on the bank, I lay con- 
cealed, the boat again departed, with the same fleet- 
ness, over the flood. 

Never had the prospect of an adventure come more 
welcome to me than at this moment, when my busy 
fancy was employed in weaving such chains for my 
heart, as threatened a bondage, of all others, the most 
difficult to break. To become enamoured thus of a 
creature of my own imagination, was the worst, be- 
cause the most lasting, of follies. It is only reality 
that can afford any chance of dissolving such spells, 
and the idol I was now creating to myself must for 
ever remain ideal. Any pursuit, therefore, that 
seemed likely to divert me from such thoughts — to 
bring back my imagination to earth and reality, from 
the vague region in which it had been wandering, 
was a relief too seasonable not to be welcomed with 
eagerness. 

I had watched the course which the two figures 
took, and, having hastily fastened my boat to the 
bank, stepped gently on shore, and, at a little distance, 
followed them. The windings through which they 


THE EPICUREAN. 


35 


led were intricate ; but, by the bright light of the 
moon, I was enabled to keep their forms in view, as, 
with rapid step, they glided among the monuments. 
At length, in the shade of a small pyramid, whose 
peak barely surmounted the plane-trees that grew 
nigh, they vanished from my sight. I hastened to the 
spot, but there was not a sign of life around ; and, 
had my creed extended to another world, I might 
have fancied that these mysterious forms were spirits, 
sent from thence to mock me, — so instantaneously had 
they disappeared. I searched through the neigh- 
bouring grove, but all there was still as death. At 
length, in examining one of the sides of the pyramid, 
which, for a few feet from the ground, was furnished 
with steps, I found, midway between peak and base, 
a part of the surface, which, although presenting to 
the eye an appearance of smoothness, gave to the 
touch, I thought, indications of a concealed opening. 

After a variety of efforts and experiments, I, at 
last, more by accident than skill, pressed the spring 
that commanded this hidden aperture. In an instant 
the portal slid aside, and disclosed a narrow stairway 
within, the two or three first steps of which were dis- 
cernible by the moonlight, while the rest were all lost 
in utter darkness. Though it was difficult to con- 
ceive that the persons whom I had been pursuing 
would have ventured to pass through this gloomy 
opening, yet to account for their disappearance other- 
wise was still more difficult. At all events, my curi- 
osity was now too eager in the chase to relinquish it ; 
— the spirit of adventure, once raised, could not be 
so easily laid. Accordingly, having sent up a gay 
prayer to that bliss-loving Queen whose eye alone 
was upon me,T passed through the portal, and de- 
scended into the pyramid. 


36 


THE EFICUEEAN 


CHAPTER VI. 

At the bottom of the stairway I found myself in a 
low, narrow passage through which, without stooping 
almost to the earth, it was impossible to proceed. 
Though leading through a multiplicity of dark wind- 
ings, this way seemed but little to advance my pro- 
gress, — its course, I perceived, being chiefly circular, 
and gathering, at every turn, but a deeper intensity 
of darkness. 

“Can any thing human,” thought I, “sojourn 
here ?” — and had scarcely asked myself the question, 
when the path opened into a long gallery, at the far- 
thest end of which a gleam of light was visible. This 
welcome glimmer appeared to issue from some cell 
or alcove, in which the right-hand wall of the gallery 
terminated, and, breathless with expectation, I stole 
gently towards it. 

Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene present- 
ed itself to my eyes, for which my fondest expecta- 
tions of adventure could not have prepared me. The 
place from which the light proceeded was a small 
chapel, of whose interior, from the dark recess in 
which I stood, I could take, unseen myself, a full and 
distinct view. Over the walls of this oratory were 
painted some of those various symbols, by which the 
mystic wisdom of the Egyptians loves to shadow out 
the History of the Soul, — the winged globe with a 
serpent — the rays descending from above, like a 
' glory — and the Theban beetle, as he comes forth 
after the waters have passed away, and the first sun- 
beam falls on his regenerated wings.^i 

In the middle of the chapel, on a low altar of gran- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


37 


ite, lay a lifeless female form, enshrined within a case 
of crystal,^ — as it is the custom to preserve the dead 
in Ethiopia, — and looking as freshly beautiful as if 
the soul had but a few hours departed. Among the 
emblems of death, on the front of the altar, were a 
slender lotus-branch broken in two, and a bird just 
winging its flight from the spray 

To these memorials of the dead, however, I paid 
but little attention; for there was a living object 
there upon which my eyes were now intently fixed. 

The lamp, by which the whole of the chapel was 
illuminated, was placed at the head of the pale image 
in the shrine ; and, between its light and me, stood a 
female form, bending over the monument, as if to 
gaze upon the silent features within. The position in 
which this figure was placed, intercepting a strong 
light, afforded me, at first, but an imperfect and 
shadowy view of it. Yet even at this mere outline I 
felt my heart beat high, — and memory had no less 
share, as it prof^ed, in this feeling than imagination. 
For, on the head changing its position, so as to let 
a gleam fall upon the features, I saw, with a trans- 
port which had almost led me to betray my lurking- 
place, that it was she — the young worshipper of Isis — 
the same, the very same, whom I had seen, brighten- 
ing the holy place where she stood, and looking like 
an inhabitant of some purer world. 

The movement by which she had now afforded 
me an opportunity of recognizing her, was made in 
raising from the shrine a small cross* of silver, which 
lay directly over the bosom of the lifeless figure.^ 
Bringing it close to her lips, she kissed it with a reli- 
gious fervour ; then turning her eyes mournfully up- 
ward, held them fixed with a degree of inspired 
earnestness, as if, at that moment, in direct commu- 
nion with Heaven, they saw neither roof nor any 
other earthly barrier between them and the skies. 


» A cross was, among the Egyptians, the emblem of a future life. 

4 


38 


THE EPICUREAN. 


What a power is there in innocence ! whose very 
helplessness is its safeguard — in whose presence even 
Passion himself stands abashed, and turns worship- 
per at the very altar which he came to despoil ! She, 
who, but a short hour befoi’e, had presented herself 
to my imagination as something I could have risked 
immortality to win, — she, whom gladly, from the 
floor of her own lighted temple, in the very face of 
its proud ministers, I would have borne away in tri- 
umph, and defied all punishments, both human and 
sacred, to make her mine, — that creature was now 
before me, thrown, as if by fate itself, into my pow- 
er — standing there, beautiful and alone, with nothing 
but her innocence for her guard ! Yet, no — so touch- 
ing was the purity of the whole scene, so calm and 
august that protection which the dead extended over 
the living, that every earthly feeling was forgotten as 
I gazed, and love itself became exalted into reverence. 

Entranced, indeed, as I felt in witnessing such a 
scene, thus to enjoy it by stealth, seemed a wrong, a 
sacrilege — and, rather than let her eyes meet the flash 
of mine, or disturb, by a whisper, that sacred silence, 
in which Youth and Death held communion through 
undying Love, I would have suffered my heart to 
break, without a murmur, where I stood. As gently, 
as if life itself depended upon my every movement, I 
stole away from that tranquil and holy scene — leav- 
ing it still holy and tranquil as I had found it — and, 
gliding back through the same passages and wind- 
ings by which I had entered, regained the narrow 
stairway, and again ascended into light. 

The sun had just risen, and, from the summit of 
the Arabian hills, was pouring down his beams into 
that vast valley of waters, — as if proud of last night’s 
homage to his own divine Isis, now fading away in 
the superiour splendour of her Lord. My first im- 
pulse was to fly at once from this dangerous spot, 
and seek in new loves and pleasures, oblivion of the 
wondrous scene I had just witnessed. “ Once out of 


THE EPICUREAN. 


39 


the circle of this enchantment,” I exclaimed, “ I know 
my own susceptibility to new impressions too well, 
to doubt that I shall soon break the spell that is now 
around me.” 

But vain were alL my efforts and resolves. Even 
while swearing to fly, I found my steps still lingering 
fondly round the pyramid — my eyes still turned to- 
wards the portal which severed this enchantress from 
the world of the living. Hour after hour did I wan- 
der through that City of Silence, till, already, it was 
mid-day, and, under the eye of the meridian sun, the 
mighty pyramid of pyramids stood, like a great spi- 
rit, shadowless.^ 

Again did those wild and passionate feelings, which, 
for a moment, her presence had subdued into rever- 
ence, return to take possession of my imagination and 
my senses. I even reproached myself for the awe 
that had held me spell-bound before her. “What 
w^ould my companions of the Garden say, did they 
know that their chief — he whose path Love had strew- 
ed with trophies- — was now pining for a simple Egyp- 
tian girl, in whose presence he had not dared to give 
utterance to a single sigh, and who had vanquished 
the victor, without even knowing her triumph !” 

A blush came over my cheek at the humiliating 
thought, and I determined, at all risks, to await her 
coming. That she should be an inmate of those 
gloomy caverns seemed inconceivable ; nor did there 
appear to be any issue from their depths but by the 
pyramid. Again, therefore, like a sentinel of the dead, 
did I pace up and down among those tombs, contrast- 
ing mournfully the burning fever within my own 
veins with the cold quiet of those who were slum- 
bering around. 

At length the intense glow of the sun over my 
head, and, still more, that ever restless agitation in my 
heart, became too much for even strength like mine 
to endure. Exhausted, I threw myself down at the 
Dase of the pyramid — choosing my place directly 


40 


THE EPICUREAN. 


under the portal, where, even should slumber surprise 
me, my heart, if not my ear, might still keep watch, 
and her footstep, light as it was, could not fail to 
awake me. 

After many an ineffectual struggle against drowsi- 
ness, I at len^h sunk into sleep — but not into forget- 
fulness. The same image still haunted me, in every 
variety of shape, with which imagination, assisted by 
memory, could invest it. Now, like the goddess Nei- 
tha, upon her throne at Sais, she seemed to sit, with 
the veil just raised from that brow, which till then no 
mortal had ever beheld, — and now, like the beautiful 
enchantress Rhodope, I saw her rise from out the 
pyramid in which she had dwelt for ages, — 

“ Fair Rhodope, as story tells, 26 

The bright unearthly nymph, who dwells 

’Mid sunless gold and jewels hid, 

The Lady of the Pyramid !” 

So long had my sleep continued, amidst that un- 
broken silence, that I found the moon again resplen- 
dent above the horizon when I awoke. All around 
looked still and lifeless as before, nor did a print’upon 
the herbage betray that any foot, since my own, had 
passed over it. Refreshed by my long rest, and with 
a fancy still more excited by the mystic wonders of 
which I had been dreaming, I now resolved to re- 
visit the chapel in the pyramid, and put an end, if 
possible, to this strange mystery that haunted me. 

Having learned, from the experience of the pre- 
ceding night, the inconvenience of encountering those 
labyrinths without a light, I now hastened to provide 
myself with a lamp from my boat. Tracking my way 
back with some difficulty to the shore, I there found 
not only my lamp, but also some dates and dried 
fruits, with a store of which I was always provided, 
for my roving life upon the waters, and which now, 
after so many hours of abstinence, were a most wel- 
come and necessary relief. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


41 


Thus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and 
was proceeding to search out the secret spring, when 
a loud, dismal noise was heard at a distance, to which 
all the melancholy echoes of the cemetery gave an- 
swer. The sound came, I knew, from the Great 
Temple on the shore of the lake, and was the sort of 
shriek which its gates — the Gates of Oblivion, as 
they are called^”^ — used to send forth from their 
hinges, when opening at night, to receive the newly- 
landed dead. 

I had heard that sound before, and always with 
sadness ; but, at this moment, it thrilled through me 
like a voice of ill omen, and I almost doubted whe- 
ther I should not abandon my enterprise. The hesi- 
tation, however, was but momentary ; — even while 
it passed through my mind, I had touched the spring 
of the portal. In a few seconds more, I was again 
in the passage beneath the pyramid ; and, being ena- 
bled by the light of the lamp to follow the windings 
of the way more rapidly, soon found myself at the 
door of the small chapel in the gallery. 

I entered, still awed, though there was now, alas, 
nothing living within. The young Priestess had va- 
nished, like a spirit into the darkness ; and all the 
rest remained as I had left it on the preceding night. 
The lamp still stood burning upon the crystal shrine ; 
the cross was lying where the hands of the young 
mourner had placed it, and the cold image, within 
the shrine, wore still the same tranquil look, as if re- 
signed to the solitude of death — of all lone things the 
loneliest. Remembering the lips that I had seen kiss 
that cross, and kindling with the recollection, I raised 
it passionately to my own ; — but the dead eyes, at the 
same moment, I thought, met mine, and, awed and 
saddened in the midst of my ardour, I replaced the 
cross upon the shrine. ' , ' 

1 had now lost every clue to the object of my pur- 
suit, and was about to retrace slowly my steps to 
earth, with all that gloomy satisfaction, which cer- 
4 * 


42 


THE EPICUREAN. 


tainty, even when unwelcome, brings, — when, as I 
held forth my lamp, on leaving the chapel, I could 
perceive that the gallery, instead of terminating here, 
took a sudden and snake-like bend to the left, which 
had before eluded my observation, and which gave 
promise of a pathway still further into those recesses. 
Reanimated by this discovery, which opened a new 
source of hope to my heart, I cast, for a moment, a 
hesitating look at my lamp, as if to inquire whether 
it would be faithful through the gloom I was about to 
encounter, and then, without further consideration, 
rushed eagerly forward. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The path led, for a while through the same sort of 
narrow windings as those which I had before en- 
countered, in descending the stairway ; and at length 
opened, in a similar manner, into a straight and steep 
gallery, along each side of which stood, closely rang- 
ed and upright, a file of lifeless bodies, whose glassy 
eyes appeared to glare upon me preternaturally as I 
passed.^ 

Arrived at the end of this gallery, I found my 
hopes, for the second time, vanish ; as the path, it 
was plain, extended no further. The only object I 
could discern, by the glimmering of my lamp, which 
now, every minute, burned fainter and fainter, was 
the mouth of a huge well that lay gaping before me 
— a reservoir of darkness, black and unfathomable. 
It now crossed my memory that I had once heard of 
such wells, as being used occasionally for passages 
by the priests. Leaning down, therefore, over the 
edge, I examined anxiously all within, in order to dis- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


43 


cover whether there was any way of descending into 
the chasm. But the sides, I could see, were hard 
and smooth as glass, being varnished all over with 
that sort of dark pitch, which the Dead Sea throws 
out upon its slimy shore. 

After a more attentive scrutiny, however, I ob- 
served, at the depth of a few feet, a sort of iron step, 
projecting dimly from the side, and, below it, another, 
•which, though hardly perceptible, was just sufficient 
to encourage an adventurous foot to the trial. Though 
all hope of tracing the young Priestess was now at 
an end, — it being impossible that female foot should 
have ventured on this descent, — yet, as I had so far 
engaged in the adventure, and there was, at least, a 
mystery to be unravelled, I determined, at all hazards, 
to explore the chasm. Placing my lamp, therefore, 
(which was hollowed at the bottom, so as to fit like a 
helmet) firmly upon my head, and having thus both 
hands at liberty for exertion, I set my foot cautiously 
on the iron step, and descended into the well. 

I found the same footing, at regular intervals, to a 
considerable depth ; and had already counted near a 
hundred of these steps, when the ladder altogether 
ceased, and I could descend no further. In vain did 
I stretch down my foot in search of support — the 
hard, slippery sides were all that it encountered. At 
length, stooping my head, so as to let the light fall 
below. I observed an opening or window directly 
above the step on which I stood, and, taking for 
granted that the way must lie in that direction, clam- 
bered with no small difficulty through the aperture. 

I now found myself on a rude and narrow stair- 
way, the steps of which were cut out of the living 
rock, and wound spirally downward in the same di- 
rection as the well. Almost dizzy with the descent, 
which seemed as if it would never end, I, at last, 
reached the bottom, where a pair of massy iron gates 
were closed directly across my path, as if to forbid 
my further progress. Massy, however, and gigantic 


44 


THE EPICUREAN. 


as they were, I found, to my surprise, that the hand 
of an infant might have opened them with ease— 
so readily did their stupendous folds give way to my 
touch. 


“ Ligjht as a lime-bush, that receives 
Some wandering bird among its leaves.” 

No sooner, however, had I passed through, than the 
din, with which the gates clashed together again, was 
such as might have awakened death itself.^^ It seem- 
ed as if every echo throughout that vast, subterra- 
nean world, from the Catacombs of Alexandria to 
Thebes’s Valley of Kings, had caught up and repeat- 
ed the thundering sound.^ 

Startled as I was by the crash, not even this super- 
natural clangour could divert my attention from the 
sudden light that now broke around me — soft, warm, 
and welcome as are the stars of his own South to 
the eyes of the mariner who has long been wander- 
ing through the cold seas of the North. Looking for 
the source of this splendour, I saw, through an arch- 
way opposite, a long illuminated alley, stretching 
away as far as the eye could reach, and fenced, on 
one side, with thickets of odoriferous shrubs, while, 
along the other extended a line of lofty arcades, from 
which the light, that filled the whole area, issued. As 
soon, too, as the din of the deep echoes had subsided, 
there stole gradually on my ear a strain of choral 
music, which appeared to come mellowed and sweet- 
ened in its passage, through many a spacious hall 
within those shining arcades ; while, among the voices 
I could distinguish some female tones, which, tower- 
ing high and clear above all the rest, formed the 
spire, as it were, into which the harmony tapered, as 
it rose. 

8o excited was my fancy by this sudden enchant- 
ment, that — though never had I caught a sound from 
the fair Egyptian’s lips — I yet persuaded myself that 
the voice I now heard was hers, sounding highest and 


THE EPICUREAN. 


45 


most heavenly of all that choir, and calling to me, 
like a distant spirit from its sphere. Animated by 
this thought, I flew forward to the archway, but found, 
to my mortification, that it was guarded by a trellis- 
work, whose bars, though invisible at a distance, re- 
sisted all my efforts to force them. 

While occupied in these ineffectual struggles, I per- 
ceived, to the left of the archway, a dark, cavernous 
opening, which seemed to lead in a direction parallel 
to the lighted arcades. Notwithstanding, however, 
my impatience, the aspect of this passage, as I look- 
ed shudderingly into it, chilled my very blood. It 
was not so much darkness, as a sort of livid and 
ghastly twilight, from which a damp, like that of 
death- vaults, exhaled, and through which, if my eyes 
did not deceive me, pale, phantom- like shapes were, 
at that very moment, hovering.^^ 

Looking anxiously round, to discover some less for- 
midable outlet, I saw, over the vast folding-gates 
through which I had just passed, a blue, tremulous 
flame, which, after playing for a few seconds over 
the dark ground of the pediment, settled gradually 
into characters of light, and formed the following 
words : — 

You, who would try 
Yon terrible track, 

To live, or to die. 

But ne’er to look back.— 

You, who aspire 

To be purified there. 

By the terrors of Fire, 

Of Water, and Air, — 

If danger, and pain. 

And death you despise, 

On — for again 
Into light you shall rise ; 

Rise into light 
With that Secret Divine, 

Now ehrouded from sight 
By the Veils of the Shrine ! 

But if— 


46 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Here the letters faded away into a dead blank, more 
awfully intelligible than the most eloquent words. 

A new hope now flashed across me. The dream 
of the Garden, which had been for some time almost 
forgotten, returned freshly to my mind. “Am I 
then,” I exclaimed, “ in the path to the promised mys- 
tery? and shall the great secret of Eternal Life in- 
deed be mine ?” 

“ Yes !” seemed to answer out of the air, that spi- 
rit-Voice, which still was heard far off crowning the 
choir with its single sweetness. I hailed the omen 
with transport. Love and Immortality, both beckon- 
ing me onward — who would give even a thought to 
fear, with two such bright hopes in prospect ? Hay- 
ing invoked and blessed that unknown enchantress, 
whose steps had led me to this abode of mystery and 
knowledge, I instantly plunged into the chasm. 

Instead of that vague, spectral twilight which had 
at first met my eye, I now found, as I entered, a thick 
darkness, which, though far less horrible, was, at this 
moment, still more disconcerting, as my lamp, which 
had been, for some time, almost useless, was now fast 
expiring. Resolved, however, to make the most of 
its last gleam, I hastened, with rapid step, through 
this gloomy region, which appeared to be wider and 
more open to the air than any I had yet passed. Nor 
was it long before the sudden appearance of a bright 
blaze in the distance announced to me that my first 
great Trial was at hand. .As I drew nearer, the 
flames before me burst high and wide on all sides ; — 
and the spectacle that then presented itself was such 
as might have daunted even hearts far more accus- 
tomed to dangers than mine. 

There lay before me, extending completely across 
my path, a thicket, or grove of the most combustible 
trees of Egypt — tamarind, pine, and Arabian balm ; 
while around their stems and branches were coiled 
serpents of fire,^^ which, twisting themselves rapidly 
from bough to bough, spread the contagion of their own 


THE EPICUREAN. 


47 


wild-fire as they went, and involved tree after tree in 
one general blaze. It was, indeed, rapid as the burn- 
ing of those reed-beds of Ethiopia, whose light is 
seen at a distance, brightening, at night, the foamy 
cataracts of the Nile.^^ 

Through the middle of this blazing grove, I now 
perceived my only pathway lay. There was not a 
moment to be lost — for the conflagration gained ra- 
pidly on either side, and already the narrowing path 
between was strewed with vivid fire. Casting away 
my now useless lamp, and holding my robe as some 
slight protection over my head, I ventured, with 
trembling limbs, into the blaze. 

Instantly, as if my presence had given new life to 
the flames, a fresh outbreak of combustion arose on 
all sides. The trees clustered into a bower of fire 
above my head, while the serpents that hung hissing 
from the red branches shot showers of sparkles down 
upon me as I passed. Never were decision and ac- 
tivity of more ^vail ; — one minute later, and I must 
have perished. The narrow opening, of which I had 
so promptly availed myself, closed instantly behind 
me ; and, as I looked back, to contemplate the ordeal 
which I had passed, I saw that the whole grove was 
already one mass of fire. 

Rejoiced to have escaped this first trial, I instantly 
plucked from one of the pine-trees a bough that was 
but just kindled, and, with this for my only guide, 
hastened breathlessly forward. I had gone but a few 
paces, when the path turned suddenly off, — leading 
downwards, as I could perceive by the glimmer of 
my brand, into a more confined space, through which 
a chilling air, as if from some neighbouring waters, 
blew over my brow. Nor had I proceeded in this 
course very far, when the sound of torrents — min- 
gled, as I thought, from time to time, with shrill wail- 
ings, like the cries of persons in danger or distress — 
fell mournfully upon my ear.^ At every step the 
noise of the dashing waters increased, and I now 


48 


TH E EP ICURE AN. 


perceived that I had entered an immense rocky cav- 
ern, through the middle of which, headlong as a win- 
ter-torrent, the flood, to whose roar I had been listen- 
ing, poured its dark waters ; while upon its surface 
floated grim spectre-like shapes, which< as they went 
by, sent forth those dismal shrieks I had heard — as 
if in fear of some awful precipice towards whose 
brink they were hurrying. 

I saw plainly that across that torrent lay my only 
course. It was, indeed, fearful ; but in courage now 
lay my only hope. What awaited me on the opposite 
shore I knew not ; for all there was immersed in im- 
penetrable gloom, nor could the feeble light which I 
carried, send its glimmer half so far. Dismissing, how- 
ever, all thoughts but that of pressing onward, I 
sprung from the rock on which I stood into the flood, 
trusting that, with my right hand, I should be able to 
buffet the current, while, with the other, as long as a 
gleam of my brand remained, I might hold it aloft to 
guide me safely to the shore. 

Long, formidable, and almost hopeless was the 
struggle I had now to maintain ; and more than once, 
overpowered by the rush of the waters, I had given 
myself up as destined to follow those pale, death-like 
apparitions, that still went past me, hurrying with 
mournful cries, to find their doom in some invisible 
gulf beyond.^ 

At length, just as my strength was nearly exhaust- 
ed, and the last remains of the pine-branch were fall- 
ing from my hand, I saw, outstretching towards me 
into the water, a light double balustrade, with a flight 
of steps between, ascending almost perpendicularly, 
from the wave, till they seemed lost in a dense mass 
of clouds above. This .glimpse — for it was nothing 
more, as my light expired in giving it — lent new 
spring to my courage. Having now both hands at 
liberty, so desperate were my efforts, that, after a 
few minutes’ struggle, I felt my brow strike against 


THE EPICUREAN. 


49 


the stairway, and, in another instant, my feet were 
on the steps. 

Rejoiced at my rescue from that perilous flood, 
though I knew not whither this stairway led, I 
promptly ascended the steps. But this feeling of con- 
fidence was of short duration. I had not mounted 
far, when, to my horror, I perceived, that each suc- 
cessive step, as my foot left it, broke away from be- 
neath me, leaving me in mid-air, with no other alter- 
native than that of still continuing to mount by the 
same momentary footing, and with the appalling 
doubt whether it would even endure my tread. 

And thus did I, for a few seconds, continue to as- 
cend, with nothing beneath me but that awful river, 
in which — so tranquil had it now become — I could 
hear the plash of the falling fragments, as every step 
in succession gave way from under my feet. It was 
a most trying moment, — but even still worse re- 
mained. I now found the balustrade, by which I had 
held during my ascent, and which had hitherto seem- 
ed firm, grow tremulous in my hand, while the step, 
to which I was about to trust myself, tottered under 
my foot. Just then, a momentary flash, as if of light- 
ning, broke around me, and I perceived, hanging out 
of the clouds, and barely within my reach, a huge 
brazen ring. Instinctively I stretched forth my arm 
to seize it, and, at the same instant, both balustrade 
and steps gave way beneath me, and I was left swing- 
ing by my hands in the dark void. As if, too, this 
massy ring, which I grasped, was by some magic 
power linked with all the winds in heaven, no sooner 
had I seized it, than, like the touching of a spring, it 
seemed to give loose to every variety of gusts and 
tempests, that ever strewed the sea- shore with wrecks 
or dead ; and, as I swung about, the sport of this 
elemental strife, every new burst of its fury threat- 
ened to shiver me, like a storm-sail, to atoms ! 

Nor was even this the worst ; for, still holding, I 
know not how, by the ring, I felt myself caught up, 
5 


50 


THE EPICULEAN, 


as if by a thousand whirlwinds, and then, round and 
round, like a stone-shot in a sling, continued to be 
whirled in the midst of all this deafening chaos, till 
my brain grew dizzy, my recollection became con- 
fused, and I almost fancied myself on that wheel of 
the infernal world, whose rotations Eternity alone 
can number. 

Human strength could no longer sustain such a 
trial. I was on the point, at last, of loosing my hold, 
when suddenly the violence of the storm moderated; 
my whirl through the air gradually ceased, and I felt 
the ring slowly descend with me, till — happy as a 
shipwrecked mariner at the first touch of land — I 
found my feet once more upon firm ground. 

At the same moment, a light of the most delicious 
softness filled the whole air. Music, such as is heard 
in dreams, came floating at a distance ; and as my 
eyes gradually recovered their powers of vision, a 
scene of glory was revealed to them, almost too 
bright for imagination, and yet living and real. As 
far as the sight could reach, enchanting gardens were 
seen, opening away through long tracts of light and 
verdure, and sparkling every where with fountains, 
that circulated, like streams of life, among the flow- 
ers. Not a charm was here wanting, that the fancy 
of poet or prophet, in their warmest pictures of Ely- 
sium, have ever yet dreamed or promised. Aistas, 
opening into scenes of indistinct grandeur, — streams, 
shining out at intervals, in their shadowy course, — 
and labyrinths of flowers, leading, by mysterious 
windings, to green, spacious glades full of splendour 
and repose. Over all this, too, there fell a light, from 
some unseen source, resembling nothing that illumines 
our upper world — a sort of golden moonlight, ming- 
ling the warm radiance of day with the calm and 
melancholy lustre of night. 

Nor were there wanting inhabitants for this sun- 
less Paradise. Through all the bright gardens were 
wandering, with the serene air and step of happy 


THE EPICUREAN. 


51 


spirits, groups both of young and old, of venerable 
and of lovely forms, bearing, most of them, the Nile’s 
white flowers on their heads, . and branches of the 
eternal palm in their hands ; while, over the verdant 
turf, fair children and maidens went dancing to aerial 
music, whose source was, like that of the light, invi- 
sible, but which filled the whole air with its mystic 
sweetness. 

Exhausted as I was by the painful trials I had un- 
dergone, no sooner did I perceive those fair groups 
in the distance, than my weariness, both of frame 
and spirit, was forgotten. A thought crossed me that 
she, whom I sought, might possibly be among them ; 
and notwithstanding the awe, with which that un- 
earthly scene inspired me, I was about to fly, on the 
instant, to ascertain my hope. But in the act of 
making the effort, I felt my robe gently pulled, and 
turning, beheld an aged man before me, whom, by 
the sacred hue of his garb, I knew to be a Hiero- 
phant. Placing a branch of the consecrated palm 
in my hand, he said, in a solemn voice, “ Aspirant of 
the Mysteries, welcome !” — Then, regarding me for a 
few seconds with grave attention, added, in a tone of 
courteousaess and interest, “ The victory over the 
body hath been gained ! — Follow me, young Greek, 
to thy resting-place.” 

I obeyed in silence, — and the Priest, turning away 
from this scene of splendour, into a secluded path, 
where the light faded away, as we advanced, con- 
ducted me to a small pavilion, by the side of a whis- 
pering stream, where the very spirit of slumber seem- 
ed to preside, and, pointing silently to a bed of dried 
poppy-leaves, left me to repose. 


52 


THE EPICUREAN 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Though the sight of that splendid scene whose 
glories opened upon me, like a momentary glimpse 
into another world, had, for an instant, reanimated 
my strength and spirit, yet, so completely was my 
whole frame*subdued by fatigue, that, even had the 
form of the young Priestess herself then stood before 
me, my limbs would have sunk in the effort to reach 
her. No sooner had I fallen on my leafy couch, than 
sleep, like a sudden death, came over me ; and I lay, 
for hours, in that deep and motionless res-t, which not 
even a shadow of life disturbs. 

On awaking I saw, beside me, the same venerable 
personage, who had welcomed me to this subterra- 
nean world on the preceding night. At the foot of 
my couch stood a statue, of Grecian workmanship, 
representing a boy, with wings, seated gracefully on 
a lotus- flower, and having the forefinger of his right 
hand pressed to his lips. This action, together with 
the glory round his brows, denoted, as I already 
knew, the God of Silence and Light.^® 

Impatient to know what further trials awaited me, 
I was about to speak, when the Priest exclaimed, 
anxiously, “ Hush !” — and, pointing to the statue at 
the foot of the couch, said, — “ Let the spell of that 
Spirit be upon thy lips, young stranger, till the wis- 
dom of thy instructors shall think fit to remove it. 
Not unaptly doth the same deity preside over Silence 
and Light ; since it is only out of the depth of con- 
templative silence, that the great light of the soul, 
Truth, can arise !” 

Little used to the language of dictation or instruc- 
tion, I was now preparing to rise, when the Priest 
again restrained me ; and, at the same moment, two 


THE EPICUREAN. 


53 ' 


boys, beautiful as the young Genii of the stars, enter- 
ed the pavilion. They were habited in long garments 
of the purest white, and bore each a small golden 
chalice in his hand.^’’' Advancing towards me, they 
stopped on opposite sides of the couch, and one of 
them, presenting me his chalice of gold, said, in a 
tone between singing and speaking, — 

“ Drink of this cup — Osiris sips38 
The same in his halls below ; 

And the same he gives, to cool the lips 
Of the Dead who downward go.3*J 

“ Drink of this cup — the water within 
Is fresh from Lethe’s stream ; 

“ ’Twill make the past, with all its sin. 

And all its pain and sorrows, seem 
Like a long-forgotten dream ! 

“ The pleasure, whose charms 
Are steep’d in woe ; 

The knowledge, that harms 
The soul to know ; 

The hope, that, bright 
As the lake of the waste, 

Allures the sight, 

But mocks the taste ; 

“ The love that binds 
Its innocent wreath, 

Where the serpent winds, 

In venom, beneath ; 

“ All that, of evil or false, by thee. 

Hath ever been known or seen. 

Shall melt away in this cup, and be 
Forgot, as it never had been !” 

Unwilling to throw a slight on this. strange cere- 
mony, I leaned forward, with all due gravity, and 
tasted the cup ; which I had no sooner done than the 
young cup-bearer, on the other side, invited my at- 
tention;^® and, in his turn, presenting the chalice 
which he held, sung, with a voice still sweeter than 
that of his companion, the following strain : — 

“ Drink of this cup — when Isis led 
Her boy, of old to the beaming sky, 

She mingled a draught divine, and said — 

‘ Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die !’41 


54 


TH E EP ICURE AN. 


“ Thus do I say and sing to thee, 

Heir of that boundless heav’n on high, 

Though frail, and fall’n, and lost thou be, 

Drink of this cup, thou’lt never die !” 

Much as I had endeavoured to keep my philosophy 
on its guard, against the illusions with which, I knew, 
this region abounded, the young cup-bearer had here 
touched a spring of imagination, over which my phi- 
losophy, as has been seen, had but little control. No 
sooner had the words, “ thou shalt never die,” struck 
on my ear, than the dream of the Garden came fully 
to my mind, and, starting half-way from the couch, 
I stretched forth my hands to the cup. Instantly, 
however, recollecting myself, and fearing I had be- 
trayed to others a weakness fit only for my own se- 
cret indulgence, with a smile of affected indifference 
I sunk back again on my couch, — while the young 
minstrel, but little interrupted by my movement, still 
continued his strain, of which I heard but the con- 
cluding words : — 

“ And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come. 

Dreams of a former, happier day. 

When Heaven was still the Spirit’s home. 

And her wings had not yet fallen away ; 

“ Glimpses of glory, ne’er forgot, 

• That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea. 

What once hath been, what now is not. 

But, oh, what again shall brightly be.” 

Though the assurances of immortality contained 
in these verses would at any other moment — vain 
and visionary as I thought them — have sent my fancy 
wandering into reveries of the future, the effort of 
self-control I had just made enabled me to hear them 
with indifference. 

Having gone through the form of tasting this se- 
cond cup, I again looked anxiously to the Hierophant, 
to ascertain whether I might be permitted to rise. 
His assent having been given, the young pages brought 
to my couch a robe and tunic, which, like their own, 


THE EPICUREAN. 


55 


were of linen of the purest white ; and having as- 
sisted to clothe me in this sacred garb, they then 
placed upon my head a chaplet of myrtle, in which 
the symbol of Initiation, a golden grasshopper, was 
seen shining out from among the dark leaves.^^ 

Though sleep had done much to refresh my frame, 
something more was still wanting to restore its 
strength : and it was not without a smile at my own 
reveries I reflected how much more welcome than 
even the young page’s cup of immortality was the 
unpretending, but real, repast now set before me, con- 
sisting of fresh fruits from the Isle of Gardens in the 
Nile,'^^ the delicate flesh of the desert antelope, and 
wine from the Vineyard of the Queen at Anthylla, 
which one of the pages fanned with a palm-leaf, to 
keep it cool.'^'^ 

Having done justice to these dainties, it was with 
pleasure I heard the proposal of the Priest, that we 
should walk forth together and meditate among the 
scenes without. I had not forgotten the splendid Ely- 
sium that last night welcomed me, — those rich gar- 
dens, that soft, unearthly music and light, and, above 
all, those fair forms I had seen wandering about, — as 
if, in the very midst of happiness, still seeking it. 
The hope, which had then occurred to me, that, 
among those bright groups, might possibly be found 
the young maiden I sought, now returned with in- 
creased strength. I had little doubt that my guide 
was leading me to the same Elysian scene, and that 
the form, so fit to inhabit it, would again appear be- 
fore my eyes. 

But far different, I found, was the region to which 
he now conducted me ; — nor could the whole world 
have produced a scene more gloomy, or more strange. 
It had the appearance of a small, solitary valley, en- 
closed, on every side, by rocks, which seemed to rise, 
almost perpendicularly, till they reached the very sky ; 
— for it was, indeed, the blue sky that I saw shining 
between their summits, and whose light, dimmed and 


56 


THE EPICU RE A N. 


nearly lost, in its descent thus far, formed the melan 
choly daylight of this nether world.* Down the side 
of these rocky wails descended a cataract, whose 
source was upon earth, and on whose waters, as they 
rolled glassily over the edge above, a gleam of radi- 
ance rested, showing how brilliant and pure was the 
sunshine they had left behind. From thence, gradu- 
ally growing darker and frequently broken, in its long 
descent, by alternate chasms and projections, the 
stream fell, at last, in a pale and thin mist — the phan- 
tom of what it had been on earth — into a small still 
lake that lay at the base of the rock to receive it. 

Nothing was ever so bleak and saddening as the 
appearance of this lake. The usual ornaments of the 
waters of Egypt were not wanting to it : the tall lo- 
tus here uplifted her silvery flowers, and the crimson 
flamingo floated over the tide. But they looked not 
the same as in the world above ; — the flower had ex- 
changed its whiteness for a livid hue, and the wings 
of the bird hung heavy and colourless. Every thing 
wore the same half- living aspect ; and the only sounds 
that disturbed the mournful stillness were the wailing 
cry of a heron among the sedges, and that din of the 
falling waters, in their midway struggle, above. 

There was, indeed, an unearthly sadness in the 
whole scene, of which no heart, however light, could 
resist the influence. Perceiving how I was affected 
by it, “ Such scenes,” remarked the Priest, “ suit best 
that solemn complexion of mind, which becomes him 
who approaches the Great Mystery of futurity. Be- 
hold,” — and, in saying thus, he pointed to the opening 
over our heads, through which, though the sun had 
but just passed his meridian, I could perceive a star 
or two twinkling in the heavens, — “as from this 


* “ On s’6t,ait m6me avise, depuis la premiere construction de ces 
demeures, de percer en plusieurs endroits jusqu’au haut les terres qui 
les couvroient ; non pas k la v6rite, pour tirer un jour qui n’auroit 
jamais 6t6 suffisant, mais pour recevoir un air salutaii'e, &c.” — Sethos 


THE EPICUREAN. 


57 


gloomy depth we can see those fixed stars, which are 
invisible now to the dwellers upon the bright earth, 
even so, to the sad and self-humbled spirit, doth many 
a mystery of heaven reveal itself, of which they, who 
walk in the light of the proud world, know not !”^ 
He now led me towards a rustic seat or alcove, 
beside which stood an image of that dark Deity, that 
God without a smile,*who presides over the silent 
kingdom of the Dead.*'^® The same livid and lifeless 
hue was upon his features, that seemed to hang over 
every thing in this dim valley ; and, with his right 
hand, he pointed directly downwards, to denote that 
his melancholy kingdom lay there. A plaintain — that 
favourite tree of the genii of Death — stood behind 
the statue, and spread its branches over the alcove, 
in which the Priest now seated himself, and made 
sign that I should take my place by his side.^^ 

After a long pause, as if of thought and prepara- 
tion, — “ Nobly,” said he, “ young Greek, hast thou sus- 
tained the first trials of Initiation. What still remains, 
though of vital import to the soul, brings with it nei- 
ther pain nor peril to the body. Having no\t^ proved 
and chastened thy mortal frame, by the three ordeals 
of Fire, of Water, and of Air, the next task to which 
we are called is the purification of thy spirit, — the 
cleansing of that inward and immortal part, so as to 
render it fit for the reception of the last luminous re- 
vealment, when the Veils of the Sanctuary shall be 
thrown aside, and the Great Secret of Secrets un- 
folded to thy view ! — Towards this object, the pri- 
mary and most important step is, instruction. What 
the three purifying elements thou hast passed through, 

have done for thy body, instruction will effect for ” 

. “ But that lovely maiden !” I exclaimed, bursting 

from my silence, having fallen, during his speech, into 
a deep reverie, in which I had forgotten him, myself, 
the Great Secret, every thing — but her. 


* Osiris. 


58 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Startled by this profane interruption, he cast a look 
of alarm towards the statue, as if fearful lest the God 
should have heard my words. Then, turning to me, 
in a tone of mild solemnity, “It is but too plain,” said 
he, “ that thoughts of the vain, upper world, and of 
its shadowy delights, still engross thee far too much, 
to allow the lessons of Truth to sink profitably into 
thy heart. A few hours of meditation amid this so- 
lemn scenery — of that wholesome meditation, w^hich 
purifies, by saddening — may haply dispose thee to re- 
ceive, with due feelings of reverence, the holy and 
imperishable knowledge that is in store for thee. 
With this hope I now leave thee to thy own thoughts, 
and to that God, before whose calm and mournful 
eye all the vanities of the world, from which thou 
comest, wither !” 

Thus saying, he turned slowly away, and passing 
behind the statue, towards which he had pointed dur- 
ing the last sentence, suddenly, and as if by enchant- 
ment, disappeared from my sight. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Being now left to my own solitary thoughts, I had 
full leisure to reflect, with some degree of coolness, 
upon the inconveniences, if not dangers, of the situa- 
tion into which my love of adventure had hurried 
me. However prompt my imagination was to kin- 
dle, in its own ideal sphere, I have ever found that,, 
when brought into contact with reality, it as sud- 
denly cooled ; — like those meteors, that appear to be 
stars, Vv^hile in the air, but, the moment they touch 
earth, are extinguished. And such was the feeling 
of disenchantment that now succeeded to the wild 
dreams in which I had been indulging. As long as 


THE E PI CU RE AN. 


59 


fancy had the field of the future to herself, even im- 
mortality did not seem too distant a race for her. 
But when human instruments interposed, the illusion 
all vanished. From mortal lips the promise of im- 
mortality seemed a mockery, nor had imagination 
herself any wings that could carry beyond the grave. 

Nor was this disappointment the only feeling that 
occupied me ; — the imprudence of the step, on which 
I had ventured, now appeared in its full extent be- 
fore my eyes. I had here thrown myself into the 
power of the most artful priesthood in the world, 
without a chance of being able to escape from their 
toils, or to resist any machinations with which they 
might beset me. It appeared evident, from the state 
of preparation in which I had found all that wonder- 
ful apparatus, by which the terrors and splendours of 
Initiation are produced, that my descent into the 
pyramid was not unexpected. Numerous, indeed, 
and active as were the spies of the Sacred College of 
Memphis, it could little be doubted that all my move- 
ments, since my arrival, had been watchfully tracked ; 
and the many hours I had employed in wandering 
and exploring around the pyramid, betrayed a curi- 
osity and spirit of adventure which might well sug- 
gest to these wily priests the hope of inveigling an 
Epicurean into their superstitious toils. 

I was well aware of their hatred to the sect of 
which I was Chief ; — that they considered the Epi- 
cureans as, next to the Christians, the most formida- 
ble enemies of their craft and power. “ How thought- 
less, then,” I felt, “ to have placed myself in a situa- 
tion, where I am equally helpless against their fraud 
and violence, and must either pretend to be the dupe 
of their impostures, or else submit to become the 
victim of their vengeance !” Of these alternatives, 
bitter as they were, the latter appeared by far the 
more welcome. It was with a blush that I even 
looked back upon the mockeries I had already yielded 
to ; and the prospect of being put through still fur- 


60 


THE EPICUREAN. 


ther ceremonials, and of being tutored and preached 
to by hypocrites I so much despised, appeared to me, 
in my present temper, a trial of patience, to which 
the flames and whirlwinds I had already encountered 
were but pastime. 

Often and impatiently did I look up, between those 
rocky walls, to the bright sky that appeared to rest 
upon their summits, as, pacing round and round, 
through every part of the valley, I endeavoured to 
find some outlet from its gloomy precincts. But vain 
were all my endeavours ; — that rocky barrier, which 
seemed to end but in heaven, interposed itself every 
where. Neither did the image of the young maiden, 
though constantly in my mind, now bring with it the 
least consolation or hope. Of what avail was it that 
she, perhaps, was an inhabitant of this region, if I 
could neither behold her smile, nor catch the sound 
of her voice, — if, while among preaching priests I 
wasted away my hours, her presence was, alas, dif- 
fusing its enchantment elsewhere. 

At length exhausted, I lay down by the brink of 
the lake, and gave myself up to all the melancholy of 
my fancy. The pale semblance of daylight, which 
had hitherto glimmered around, grew, every moment, 
more dim and dismal. Even the rich gleam, at the 
summit of the cascade, had faded ; and the sunshine, 
like the water, exhausted in its descent, had now 
dwindled into a ghostly glimmer, far worse than 
darkness. The birds upon the lake, as if about to 
die with the dying light, sunk down their heads ; and 
as I looked to the statue, the deepening shadows gave 
such an expression to its mournful features as chilled 
my very soul. 

The thought of death, ever ready to present itself 
to my imagination, now came, with a disheartening 
weight, such as I had never before felt. I almost 
fancied myself already in the dark vestibule of the 
grave, — separated, for ever, from the world above, 
and with nothing but the blank of an eternal sleep 


THE EPICUREAN. 


0 ] 


before me. It had often, I knew, happened that the 
visitants of this mysterious realm were, after their 
descent from earth, never seen or heard of ; — being 
condemned, for some failure in their initiatory trials, 
to pine away their lives in those dark dungeons, with 
which, as well as with altars, this region abounded. 
Such, I shuddered to think, might probably be my 
own destiny; and so appalling was the thought, that 
even the spirit by which I had been hitherto sus- 
tained died within me, and I was already giving my- 
self up to helplessness and despair. 

At length, after some hours of this gloomy musing, 
I heard a rustling in the sacred grove behind the 
statue ; and, soon after, the sound of the Priest’s 
voice — more welcome than I had ever thought such 
voice could be — brought the assurance that I was not 
yet, at least, wholly abandoned. Finding his way to 
me through the gloom, he now led me to the spot, on 
which we had parted so many hours before ; and, 
addressing me in a voice that retained no trace of 
displeasure, bespoke my attention, while he should 
reveal to me some of those divine truths, by whose 
infusion, he said, into the soul of man, its purification 
can alone be effected. 

The valley had now become so dark, that we w^ere 
no longer able to discern each other’s faces. There 
was a melancholy in the voice of my instructor that 
well accorded with the gloom around us : and, sad- 
dened and subdued, I now listened with resignation, 
if not with interest, to those sublime, but, alas, I 
thought, vain tenets, which, with all the warmth of a 
true believer, this Hierophant expounded to me. 

He spoke of the pre-existence of the soul,^® — of its 
abode, from all eternity, in a place of splendour and 
bliss, of which all that we have most beautiful in cur 
conceptions here is but a dim transci ipt, a clouded 
remembrance. In the blue depths of ether, he said, 
lay that “ Country of the Soul,” — its boundary alone 
visible in that line of milky light, which separates it, 
6 


62 


THE EPICUREAN. 


as by a barrier of stars, from the dark earth. “ Oh, 
realm of purity ! Home of the yet unfallen Spirit ! 
— where, in the days of her first innocence, she wan- 
dered ; ere yet her beauty was soiled by the touch 
of earth, or her resplendent wings had begun to 
wdther away. Methinks I see,” he cried, “ at this 
moment, those fields of radiance, — I look back, 
through the mists of life, into that luminous world, 
where the souls that have never lost their high, 
heavenly rank, still soar, without a stain, above the 
shadowless stars, and there dwell together in infinite 
perfection and bliss 1”"^^ 

As he spoke these words, a burst of pure, brilliant 
light, like a sudden opening of heaven, broke through 
the valley and, as soon as my eyes were able to 
endure the splendour, such a vision of glory and 
loveliness opened upon them, as took even my scep- 
tical spirit by surprise, and made it yield, at once, to 
the potency of the spell. 

Suspended, as I thought, in air, and occupying the 
whole of the opposite region of the valley, there ap- 
peared an immense Orb of light, within which, through 
a haze of radiance, I could see distinctly fair groups 
of young female spirits, who, in silent, but harmonious 
movement, like that of .the stars, wound slowly through 
a variety of fanciful evolutions ; seeming, as they 
linked and unlinked each other’s arms, to form a living 
labyrinth of beauty and grace. Though their feet 
appeared to glide along a field of light, they had also 
wings, of the most brilliant hue, which, like rainbows 
over waterfalls, when played with by the breeze, re- 
flected, every moment, a new variety of glory. 

As 1 stood, gazing with wonder, the orb, with all 
its ethereal inmates, began gradually to recede into 
the dark void, lessening, as it went, and becoming 
more bright, as it lessened ; — till, at length, distant, to 
all appearance, as a retiring comet, this little world 
of Spirits, in one small point of intense radiance, 
shone its last and vanished. “ Go,” exclaimed the 


THE E PI Cr RE A N. 


63 


rapt Priest, “ ye happy souls, of whose dwelling a 
glimpse is thus given to our eyes, go, wander in your 
orb, through the boundless heaven, nor ever let a 
thought of this perishable world come to mingle its 
dross with your divine nature, or allure you down 
earthward to that mortal fall by which spirits, no less 
bright and admirable, have been ruined !” 

A pause ensued, during which, still under the in- 
fluence of wonder, I sent my fancy wandering after 
the inhabitants of that orb — almost wishing myself 
credulous enough to believe in a heaven, of which 
creatures, so much like those I worshipped upon 
earth, were inmates. 

At length, the Priest, with a mournful sigh at the 
sad contrast he was about to draw between the hap- 
py spirits we have just seen and the fallen ones of 
earth, resumed again his melancholy History of the 
Soul. Tracing it gradually from the first moment 
of earthward desire, to its final eclipse in the shadows 
of this world, he dwelt upon every stage of its dark- 
ening descent, with a pathos that sent sadness into 
the very depths of the heart.^^ The first downward 
look of the Spirit towards earth — the tremble of her 
wings on the edge of Heaven — the giddy slide, at 
length, down that fatal descent, and the Lethean 
cup, midway in the sky, of which when she has once 
tasted. Heaven is forgot — through all these grada- 
tions he traced mournfully her fall, to the last stage 
of darkness, when, wholly immersed in this world, 
her celestial nature is changed, she no longer can rise 
above earth, nor can remember her former home, 
but by glimpses so vague, that, at length, mistaking 
for hope what is only recollection, she believes them 
to be a light from the Future, not the Pa^t. 

“ To retrieve the ruin of the once blessed Soul, — 
to clear away from around her the clouds of earth, 
and, restoring her lost wings,*^^ facilitate their return 

* In the language of Plato, Hierocles, &c., to “ restore to the soul 
its wings,” is the main object both of religion and philosophy. 


64 


THE EP I C URE AN. 


to Heaven, — such,” said the reverend man, “ is the 
great task of our religion, and such the triumph of 
those divine Mysteries, in whose inmost depths the 
life and essence of our holy religion lie treasured. 
However sunk and changed and clouded may be the 
Spirit, yet as long as a single trace of her original 

light remains, there is still hope that ” 

Here his voice was interrupted by a strain of 
mournful music, of which the low, distant breathings 
had been, for some minutes, heard, but which now 
gained upon the ear too thrillingly to let it listen to 
any more earthly sound. A faint light, too, at that 
instant broke through the valley, — and I could per- 
ceive, not far from the spot where we sat, a female 
figure, veiled, and crouching to earth, as if subdued 
by sorrow, or under the influence of shame. 

The feeble light, by which I saw her, came from 
a pale, moonlike meteor, which had gradually form- 
ed itself in the air as the music approached, and now 
shed over the rocks and the lake a glimmer as cold 
as that by which the Dead, in their own kingdom, 
gaze upon each other.^^ The music, too, which ap- 
peared to rise directly out of the lake, and to come 
full of the breath of its dark waters, spoke a despon- 
dency in every note which no language could ex- 
press ; — £ind, as I listened to its tones, and looked 
upon that fallen Spirit, (for such, the holy man whis- 
pered, was the form before us,) so entirely did the 
illusion of the scene take possession of me, that, with 
breathless anxiety, I now awaited the result.^^ 

Nor had I gazed long before that form rose slowly 
from its drooping position ; — the air around it grew 
bright, and the pale meteor overhead assumed a 
more cheerful and living light. The veil, which had 
before shrouded the face of the figure, became every 
minute more transparent, and the features, one by 
one, gradually disclosed themselves. Having trem- 
blingly watched the progress of the apparition, I 
now started from my seat, and half exclaimed, “ It is 


THE EPICUREAN. 


65 


she r In another minute, this veil had, like a thin 
mist, melted away, and the young Priestess of the 
Moon stood, for the third time, revealed before my 
eyes ! 

To rush instantly towards her was my first im- 
pulse — but the arm of the Priest held me firmly back. 
The fresh light, which had begun to flow in from all 
sides, collected itself in a glory round the spot where 
she stood. Instead of melancholy music, strains of 
the most exalted rapture were heard ; and the young 
maiden, buoyant as the inhabitants of the fairy orb, 
amid a blaze of light like that which fell upon her in 
the Temple, ascended into the air. 

“ Stay, beautiful vision, stay !” I exclaimed, as, 
breaking from the hold of the Priest, I flung myself 
prostrate on the ground, — the only mode by which 
I could express the admiration, even to worship 
with which I was filled. But the vanishing spirit 
heard me not : — receding into the darkness, like that 
orb, whose track she seemed to follow, her form less- 
ened away, till she was seen no more. Gazing, till 
the last luminous speck had disappeared, I suffered 
myself unconsciously to be led away by my reverend 
guide, who, placing me once more on my bed of 
poppy-leaves, left me to such repose as it was now 
possible, after such a scene, to enjoy. 


CHAPTER X. 

The apparition with which I had been blessed in 
that Valley of Visions — for so the place where I had 
witnessed these wonders was called — brought back 
to' my heart all the hopes and fancies, in which du- 
ring my descent from earth I had indulged. I had 
now seen once more that matchless creature, who 
6 * 


66 


THE EPICUREAN. 


had been my guiding star into this mysterious world ; 
and that she must be, in some way, connected with 
the further revelations that awaited me, I saw no rea- 
son to doubt. There was a sublimity, too, in the 
doctrines of my reverend teacher, and even a hope 
in the promises of immortality held out by him, 
which, in spite of reason, won insensibly both upon 
my fancy and my pride. 

The Future, however, was now but of secondary 
consideration ; — the Present, and that deity of the 
Present, woman, were the objects that engrossed my 
whole soul. For the sake, indeed, of such beings 
alone did I consider immortality desirable, nor, with- 
out them, would eternal life have appeared to me 
worth a prayer. To every further trial of my pa- 
tience and faith, I now made up my mind to submit 
without a murmur. Some kind chance, I fondly 
persuaded myself, might yet bring me nearer to the 
object of my adoration, and enable me to address, as 
mortal woman, one who had hitherto been to me 
but as a vision, a shade. 

The period of my probation, however, was nearly 
at an end. Both frame and spirit had now been 
tried ; and, as the crowning test of the purification 
of the latter was that power of seeing into the world 
of spirits, with which I had proved myself, in the 
Valley of Visions, to be endowed, there remained 
now, to perfect my Initiation, but this one night 
more, when, in the Temple of Isis, and in the pre- 
sence of her unveiled image, the last grand revelation 
of the Secret of Secrets was to be laid open to me. 

I passed the morning of this day in company with 
the same venerable personage, who had, from the 
first, presided over the ceremonies of my instruction ; 
and who, to inspire me with due reverence for the 
power and magnificence of his religion, nowfcon- 
ductM me through the long range of illuminated gal- 
leries and shrines, that extend under the site upon 
which Memphis and the Pyramids stand, and form a 


THE EPICUREAN. 


67 


counterpart under ground to that mighty city of 
temples upon earth. 

He then descended with me, still lower, into those 
winding crypts, where lay the Seven Tables of stone, 
found. by Hermes in the valley of Hebron.®^ “ On 
these tables,” said he, “ is written all the knowledge 
of the antediluvian race, — the decrees of the stars 
from the beginning of time, the annals of a still ear- 
lier world, and all the marvellous secrets, both of 
heaven and earth, which would have been 

‘ hut for this key. 

Lost in the Universal Sea.’ ” 

Returning to the region, from which we had de- 
scended, we next visited, in succession, a series of 
small shrines, representing the objects of adoration 
through Egypt, and thus furnishing the Priest an oc- 
casion for explaining the mysterious nature of ani- 
mal worship, and the refined doctrines of theology 
that lay veiled under its forms. Every shrine was 
consecrated to a particular faith, and contained a liv- 
ing image of the deity which it adored. Beside the 
goat of Mendes,^® with his refulgent star upon his 
breast, I saw the crocodile, as presented to the eyes 
of its idolaters at Arsinoe, with costly gems in its 
loathsome ears, and rich bracelets of gold encircling 
its feet.^”^ Here, floating through a tank in the cen- 
tre of a temple, the sacred carp of Lepidotum show- 
ed its silvery scales ; while, there, the Isiac serpents 
trailed languidly over the altar, with that sort of 
movement which is thought most favourable to the 
aspirations of their votaries.^® In one of the small 
chapels we found a beautiful child, feeding and 
watching over those golden beetles, which are ador- 
ed for their brightness, as emblems of the sun ; while, 
in another, stood a sacred ibis upon its pedestal, so 
like, in plumage and attitude, to the bird of the 
young Priestess, that most gladly would I have knelt 
down and worshipped it for her sake. 


68 


THE EPICUREAN. 


After visiting all these various shrines, and hearing 
the reflections which they suggested, I was next led 
by my guide to the Great Hall of the Zodiac, on 
whose ceiling, in bright and undying colours, was 
delineated the map of the firmament, as it appeared 
at the first dawn of time. Here, in pointing out the 
track of the sun among the spheres, he spoke of the 
analogy that exists between moral and physical dark- 
ness — of the sympathy with which all spiritual crea- 
tures regard the sun, so as to sadden and decline 
when he sinks into his wintry hemisphere, and to re- 
joice when he resumes his own empire of light. 
Hence, the festivals and hymns, with which most 
of the nations of the earth are wont to welcome the 
resurrection of his orb in spring, as an emblem and 
pledge of the reascent of the soul to heaven.^^ 
Hence, the songs of sorrow, the mournful ceremo- 
nies — like those Mysteries of the Night,®® upon the 
Lake of Sais, — in which they brood over his autum- 
nal descent into the shades, as a type of the Spirit’s 
fall into this world of death. 

In discourses such as these the hours passed away ; 
and though there was nothing in the light of this 
sunless region to mark to the eye the decline of day, 
my own feelings told me that the night drew near ; 
— nor, in spite of my incredulity, could I refrain from 
a slight flutter of hope, as that promised moment of 
revelation approached, when the Mystery of Myste- 
ries was to be made all my own. This consumma- 
tion, however, was less near than I expected. My 
patience had still further trials to encounter. It was 
necessary, I now found, that, during the greater part 
of the night, I should keep watch in the Sanctuary 
of the Temple, alone and in utter darkness, — thus 
preparing myseljf, by meditation, for the awful mo- 
ment, when the irradiation from behind the Sacred 
Veils was to burst upon me. 

At the appointed hour, we left the Hall of tne 
Zodiac, and proceeded through a long line of marble 


THE EPICUREAN. 


69 


galleries, where the lamps were more thinly scattered 
as we advanced, till, at length, we found ourselves 
in total darkness. Here the Priest, taking me by 
the hand, and leading me down a flight of steps, into 
a place where the same deep gloom prevailed, said, 
with a voice trembling, as if from excess of awe, — 
“ Thou art now within the Sanctuary of our goddess, 
Isis, and the veils, that conceal her sacred image, are 
before thee !” 

After exhorting me earnestly to that train of 
thought, which best accorded with the spirit of the 
place where I stood, and, above all to that full and 
unhesitating faith, with which alone, he said, the ma- 
nifestation of such mysteries should be approached, 
the holy man took leave of me, and reascended the 
steps ; — while, so spell-bound did I feel by that deep 
darkness, that the last sound of his footsteps died 
upon my ear, before I ventured to stir a limb from 
the position in which he had left me. 

The prospect of the long watch I had now to look 
forward to was dreadful. Even danger itself, if in 
an active form, would have been far preferable to 
this sort of safe, but dull, probation, by which pa- 
tience was the only virtue put to the proof. Having 
ascertained how far the space around me was free 
from obstacles, I endeavoured to beguile the time by 
pacing up and down within those limits, till I became 
tired of the monotonous echoes of my own tread. 
Finding my way, then, to what I felt to be a massive 
pillar, and, leaning wearily against it, I surrendered 
myself to a train of thoughts and feelings, far differ- 
ent from those with which the good Hierophant had 
hop^ to inspire me. ^ 

“Why,” I again asked, “if these priests possess 
the secret of life, why are they themselves the vic- 
tims of death? why sink into the grave with the 
cup of immortality in their hands ? But no, safe 
boasters, the eternity they so lavishly promise is re- 
served for anoiherf a future world — that ready re- 


70 


THE EPICURE AIV. 


source of all priestly promises — that depository of 
the airy pledges of all creeds. Another world ! — 
alas, where does it lie ? or what spirit hath ever 
come to say that Life is there ?” 

The conclusion at which, half sadly, half passion- 
ately, I arrived, was that, life being but a dream of 
the moment never to come again, every bliss so 
vaguely promised for hereafter ought to be secured 
by the wise man here. And, as no heaven I had 
ever heard of from those visionary priests opened 
half such certainty of happiness as that smile which 
I beheld last night, — “ Let me,” I exclaimed, impa- 
tiently, striking the massy pillar till it rung, “ let me 
but make that beautiful Priestess my own, and I here 
willingly exchange for her every chance of immorta- 
lity, that the combined wisdom of Egypt’s Twelve 
Temples can offer me !” 

No sooner had I uttered these words, than a tre- 
mendous peal, like that of thunder, rolled over the 
Sanctuary, and seemed to shake its very walls.®^ On 
every side, too, a succession of blue, vivid flashes 
pierced, like lances of light through the gloom, re- 
vealing to me, at intervals, the mighty dome in which 
I stood, — its ceiling of azure, studded with stars, — 
its colossal columns, towering aloft, and those dark, 
awful veils, whose massy drapery hung from the 
roof to the floor, covering the rich glories of the 
Shrine beneath their folds. 

So weary had I grown of my tedious watch, that 
this stormy and fitful illumination, during which the 
Sanctuary seemed to rock to its base, was by no 
means an unwelcome interruption of the monotonous 
trial my patience had to suffer. After a short inter- 
val, however, the flashes ceased; — the sounds died 
away, like exhausted thunder, through the abyss, and 
darkness and silence, like that of the grave, succeeded. 

Resting my back once more against the pillar, and 
fixing my eyes upon that side of the Sanctuary, 
from which the promised irradiation was to burst, I 


THE EPICUREAN. 


71 


now resolved to await the awful moment in patience. 
Resigned and almost immovable, I had remained 
thus for nearly another hour, when suddenly, along 
the edges of the mighty Veils, 1 perceived a thin rim 
of light, as if from some brilliant object under them ; 
— resembling the border which encircles a cloud at 
sunset, when the rich radiance from behind is escap- 
ing at its edges. 

This indication of concealed glories grew every 
instant more strong ; till, at last, vividly marked as it 
was upon the darkness, the narrow fringe of lustre 
almost pained the eye, giving promise of a fulness 
of splendour too bright to be endured. — My expecta- 
tions were now wound to the highest pitch, and all 
the scepticism, into which I had been cooling down 
my mind, w'as forgotten. The wonders that had 
been presented to me since my descent from earth, 
— that glimpse into Elysium on the first night of my 
coming, — those visitants from the Land of Spirits in 
the mysterious valley, — all led me to expect, in this 
last and brightest revelation, such visions of glory 
and knowledge as might transcend even fancy itself, 
nor leave a doubt that they belonged less to earth 
than heaven. 

While, with an imagination thus excited, I stood 
waiting the result, an increased gush of light still 
more awakened my attention ; and I saw, with an 
intenseness of interest, which made my heart beat 
aloud, one of the corners of the mighty Veil slowly 
raised. I now felt that the Great Secret, whatever 
it might be, was at hand. A vague hope even cross- 
ed my mind — so wholly had imagination now resum- 
ed its empire — that the splendid promise of my dream 
was on the very point of being realized ! 

With surprise, however, and, for the moment, with 
some disappointment, I perceived, that the massy 
corner of the Veil was but lifted sufficiently from the 
ground to allow a female figure to emerge from un- 
der it, — and then fell over its mystic splendours as 


72 


THE EPICUREAN. 


utterly dark as before. By the strong light, too, that 
issued when the drapery was raised, and illuminated 
the profile of the emerging figure, I either saw, or 
fancied that I saw, the same bright features, that had 
already so often mocked me with their momentary 
charm, and seemed destined to haunt my fancy as un- 
availingly as even the fopd, vain dream of Immorta- 
lity itself. 

Dazzled as I had been by that short gush of splen- 
dour, and distrusting even my senses, when under the 
influence of an imagination so much excited, I had 
but just begun to question myself as to the reality of 
my impression, when I heard the sounds of light foot- 
steps approaching me through the gloom. In a se- 
cond or two more, the figure stopped before me, and, 
placing the end of a riband gently in my hand, said, 
in a tremulous whisper, “ Follow, and be silent.’^ 

So sudden and strange was the adventure, that, for 
a moment, I hesitated, — fearing that my eyes might 
possibly have been deceived as to the object they had 
seen. Casting a look towards the Veil, which seem- 
ed bursting with its luminous secret, I was almost 
doubting to which of the two chances I should com- 
mit myself, when I felt the riband in my hand pulled 
softly at the other extremity. This movement, like 
a touch of magic, at once decided me. Without any 
further deliberation, I yielded to the silent summons, 
and following my guide, who was already at some 
distance before me, found myself led up the same 
flight of marble steps, by which the Priest had con- 
ducted me into the Sanctuary. Arrived at their sum- 
mit, I felt the pace of my conductress quicken, and 
giving one more look to the Veiled Shrine, whose 
glories we left burning uselessly behind us, hastened 
onward into the gloom, full of confidence in the be- 
lief, that she, who now held the other end of that 
clue, was one whom I was ready to follow devotedly 
through the world. 


THE EPIC URBAN. 


73 


CHAPTER XI. 

With such rapidity was I hurried along by my un- 
seen guide, full of wonder at the speed with which 
she ventured through these labyrinths, that I had but 
little time left for reflection upon the strangeness of 
the adventure in which I had embarked. My know- 
ledge of the character of the Memphian priests, as 
W'ell as some fearful rumours that had reached me, 
concerning the fate that often attended unbelievers 
in their hands, awakened a momentary suspicion of 
treachery in my mind. But, when I recalled the face 
of my guide, as I had seen it in the small chapel, with 
that divine look, the very memory of which brought 
purity into the heart, I found my suspicions all va- 
nish and felt shame at having harboured them but an 
instant. 

In the mean while, our rapid course continued 
without any interruption, through windings even 
more capriciously intricate than any I yet had passed, 
and whose thick gloom seemed never to have been 
broken by a single glimmer of light.®^ My unseen 
conductress was still at some distance before me, and 
the slight clue, to which I clung as if it were Desti- 
ny’s own thread, was still kept, by her flying speed, 
at full stretch between us. At length, suddenly stop- 
ping, she said, in a breathless whisper, “ Seat thyself 
here and, at the same moment, led me by the hand 
to a sort of low car, in which, obeying her command, 
I lost not a moment in placing myself, while the mai- 
den, no less promptly, took her seat by my side. 

A sudden click, like the touching of a spring, was 
then heard, and the car, — which, as I had felt, in en- 
tering it, leaned half-way over a steep descent, — on 
being loosed from its station, shot down, almost per- 


74 


THE EPICUREAN. 


pendicularly, into the darkness, with a rapidity which, 
at first, nearly deprived me of breath. The wheels 
slid smoothly and noiselessly in grooves, and the im- 
petus, which the car acquired in descending, was suf- 
ficient, I perceived, to carry it up an eminence that 
succeeded, — from the summit of which it again rush- 
ed down another declivity, even still more long and 
precipitous than the former. In this manner we pro- 
ceeded, by alternate falls and rises, till, at length, from 
the last and steepest elevation, the car descended 
upon a level of deep sand, where, after running for a 
few yards, it by degrees lost its motion and stopped. 

Here, the maiden alighting again placed the riband 
in my hands, — and again I followed her, though with 
more slowness and difficulty than before, as our way 
now led up a flight of damp and time-worn steps, 
whose ascent seemed to the weary and insecure foot 
interminable. Perceiving with what languor my guide 
advanced, I was on the point of making an effort to 
assist her progress, when the creak of an opening 
door above, and a faint gleam of light which, at the 
same moment, shone upon her figure, apprized me 
that we were at last arrived within reach of sun- 
shine. 

Joyfully I followed through this opening, and, by 
the dim light, could discern, that we were now in the 
sanctuary of a vast, ruined temple, — having entered 
by a secret passage under the pedestal, upon which 
an image of the idol of the place once stood. The 
first movement of the young maiden, after closing 
again the portal under the pedestal, was, without even 
a single look towards me, to cast herself down upon 
her knees, with her hands clasped and uplifted, as if 
in thanksgiving or prayer. But she was unable, evi- 
dently, to sustain herself in this position ; — her 
strength could hold out no longer. Overcome by 
agitation and fatigue, she sunk senseless upon the 
pavement. 

Bewildered as I was myself, by the strange events 


THE EPICUREAN. 


75 


of the night, I stood for some minutes looking upon 
her in a state of helplessness and alarm. But, remind- 
ed, by my own feverish sensations, of the reviving 
effects of the air, I raised her gently in my arms, and 
crossing the corridor that surrounded the sanctuary, 
found my way to the outer vestibule of the temple. 
Here, shading her eyes from the sun, I placed her, 
reclining, upon the steps, where the cool north wind, 
then blowing freshly between the pillars, might play, 
with free draught, over her brow. 

It was, indeed, — as I now saw, with certainty, — 
the same beautiful and mysterious girl, who had been 
the cause of my descent into that subterranean world, 
and who now, under such strange and unaccountable 
circumstances, was my guide back again to the realms 
of day. I looked around to discover where we were, 
and beheld such a scene of grandeur, as, could my 
eyes have been then attracted to any object but the 
pale form reclining at my side, might well have in- 
duced them to dwell on its splendid beauties. 

I was now standing, I found, on the small island in 
the centre of Lake Moeris and that sanctuary, 
where we had just emerged from darkness, formed 
part of the ruins of an ancient temple, which was 
(as I have since learned,) in the grander days of Mem- 
phis, a place of pilgrimage for worshippers from all 
parts of Egypt. The fair Lake, itself, out of whose 
waters once rose pavilions, palaces, and even lofty 
pyramids, was still, though divested of many of these 
wonders, a scene of interest and splendour such as 
the whole world could not equal. While the shores 
still sparkled with mansions and temples, that bore 
testimony to the luxury of a living race, the voice of 
the Past, speaking out of unnumbered ruins, whose 
summits, here and there, rose blackly above the wave, 
told of times long fled and generations long swept 
away, before whose gigantic remains all the glory of 
the present stood humbled.®^ Over the southern bank 
of the Lake hung the dark relicks of the Labyrinth ; 


76 


THE EPICUREAN. 


— its twelve Royal Palaces, representing the man- 
sions of the Zodiac — its thundering portals and con- 
stellated halls, having left nothing now behind but a 
few frowning ruins, which, contrasted with the soft 
groves of acacia and olive around them, seemed to 
rebuke the luxuriant smiles of nature, and threw a 
melancholy grandeur over the whole scene. 

The effects of the air, in reanimating the young 
Priestess, were less speedy than I had expected ; — 
her eyes were still closed, and she remained pale and 
insensible. Alarmed, I now rested her head (which 
had been, for some time, supported by my arm) against 
the base of one of the columns, with my cloak for its 
pillow, while I hastened to procure some water from 
the Lake. The temple stood high, and the descent 
to the shore was precipitous. But, my Epicurean 
habits having but little impaired my activity, I soon 
descended, with the lightness of a desert deer, to the 
bottom. Here, plucking from a lofty bean-tree, whose 
flowers stood, shining like gold, above the water, one 
of those large hollowed leaves that serve as cups for 
the Hebes of the Nile, I filled it from the Lake, and 
hurried back with the cool draught towards the tem- 
ple.®® It was not, however, without some difficulty 
that I succeeded at last in bearing my rustic chalice 
steadily up the steep ; more than once did an unlucky 
slip w^aste all its contents, and as often did I return 
impatiently to refill it. 

During this time, the young maiden was fast re- 
covering her animation and consciousness ; and, at 
the moment when I appeared above the edge of the 
steep, was just rising from the steps, with her hand 
pressed to her forehead, as if confusedly recalling the 
recollection of what had occurred. No sooner did 
she observe me, than a short cry of alarm broke from 
her lips. Looking anxiously round, as though she 
sought for protection, and half audibly uttering the 
words, “Where is he?” she made an effort, as I ap- 
proached, to retreat into the temple. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


77 


Already, however, I was by her side, and taking 
gently her hand in mine, as she turned away from 
me, asked, “ Whom dost thou seek, fair Priestess ?” — 
thus, for the first time, breaking the silence she had 
enjoined, and in a tone that migh^t have reassured the 
most timid spirit. But my words had no effect in 
calming her apprehension. Trembling, and with her 
eyes still averted towards the Temple, she continued 
in a voice of suppressed alarm, — “ Where can he be ? 
— that venerable Athenian, that philosopher, who 

“ Here, here,” I exclaimed, anxiously, interrupting 
her, — “ behold him still by thy side, — the same, the 
very same, who saw thee steal from under the Veils 
of the Sanctuary, whom thou hast guided by a clue 
through those labyrinths below, and who now only 
waits his command from those lips, to devote himself 
through life and death to thy service.” As I spoke 
these words, she turned slowly round, and looking 
timidly in my face, while her own burned with 
blushes, said, in a tone of doubt and wonder, “ Thou !” 
and then hid her eyes in her hands. 

I knew not how to interpret a reception so unex- 
pected. That some mistake or disappointment had 
occurred was evident ; but so inexplicable did the 
whole adventure appear to me, that it was in vain to 
think of unravelling any part of it. Weak and agi- 
tated, she now tottered to the steps of the Temple, 
and there seating herself, with her forehead against 
the cold marble, seemed for some moments absorbed 
in the most anxious thought ; while silent and watch- 
ful I awaited her decision, though, at the same time, 
with a feeling which proved to be prophetic, — that 
my destiny must, from thenceforth, be linked insepa- 
rably with hers. 

The inward struggle by which she was agitated, 
though violent, was not of long continuance. Start- 
ing suddenly from her seat, with a look of teiTor 
towards the Temple, as if the fear of immediate pur- 


78 


THE EPICUREAN. 


suit had alone decided her, she pointed eagerly to- 
wards the East, and exclaimed, “ To the Nile, with- 
out delay !” — clasping her hands, after she had thus 
spoken, with the most suppliant fervour, as if to soften 
the abruptness of the mandate she had given, and ap- 
pealing to me at the same time, with a look that 
would have taught Stoics themselves tenderness. 

I lost not a moment in obeying the welcome com- ' 
mand. With a thousand wild hopes naturally crowd- 
ing upon my fancy, at the thoughts of a voyage, un- 
der such auspices, I descended rapidly to the shore^ 
and hailing one of those boats that ply upon the 
Lake for hire, arranged speedily for a passage down 
the canal to the Nile. Having learned, too, from the 
boatmen, a more easy path up the rock, I hastened 
back to the Temple for my fair charge ; and without 
a word or look, that could alarm, even by its kind- 
ness, or disturb the innocent confidence which she 
now evidently reposed in me, led her down by the 
winding path to the boat. 

Every thing around looked sunny and smiling as 
we embarked. The morning was now in its first 
freshness, and the path of the breeze might clearly 
be traced over the Lake, as it went wakening up the 
waters from their sleep of the night. The gay, 
golden- winged birds that haunt these shores, were, 
in every direction, skimming along the Lake ; while, 
with a graver consciousness of beauty, the swan and 
the pelican were seen dressing their white plumage 
in the mirror of its wave. To add to the liveliness 
of the scene, there came, at intervals, on the breeze, 
a sweet tinkling of musical instruments from boats at 
a distance, employed thus early in pursuing the fish 
of these waters, that allow themselves to be decoyed 
into the nets by music.* 

The vessel I had selected for our voyage was one 
of those small pleasure-boats or yachts,®^ — so much in 


* “ The fish of these waters,” &c.— .Slian, lib. 6 . 32 . 


THE EPICUREAN. 


79 


use among the luxurious navigators of the Nile, — in 
the centre of which rises a pavilion of cedar or cy- 
press wood, adorned richly on the outside, with re- 
ligious emblems, and gaily fitted up, within, for feast- 
ing and repose. To the door of this pavilion I now 
led my companion, and, after a few words of kind- 
ness, — tempered cautiously with as much reserve as 
the deep tenderness of my feeling towards her would 
admit of, — left her in solitude to court that restoring 
rest, which the agitation of her spirits so much re- 
quired. ■ 

For myself, though repose was hardly less neces- 
sary to me, the state of ferment in which my thoughts 
had been so long kept appeared to render it hopeless. 
Throwing myself on the deck of the vessel, under an 
awning which the sailors had raised for me, I con- 
tinued, for some hours, in a sort of vague day-dream, 
— sometimes passing in review the scenes of that 
subterranean drama, and sometimes, with my eyes 
fixed in drowsy vacancy, receiving passively the im- 
pressions of the bright scenery through which we 
passed. 

The banks of the canal were then luxuriantly- 
wooded. Under the tufts of the light and towering 
palm were seen the orange and the citron, interlacing 
their boughs ; while, here and there, huge tamarisks 
thickened the shade, and, at the very edge of the 
bank, the willow of Babylon stood bending itsgrace- 
fuf branches into the water. Occasionally, out of 
the depth of these groves, there shone a small temple 
or pleasure- house ; — while, now and then, an open- 
ing in their line of foliage allowed the eye to wander 
over extensive fields, all covered with beds of those 
pale, sweet roses, for which this district of Egypt is 
so celebrated.®® 

The activity of the morning hour was visible in 
every direction. Flights of doves and lapwings were 
fluttering among the leaves, and the white heron, 
which had been roosting all night in some date-tree. 


80 


THE EPICUREAN. 


now stood sunning its wings upon the green bank, or 
floated, like living silver, over the flood. The flow- 
ers, too, both of land and water, looked all just freshly 
awakened ; — and, most of all, the superb lotus, which, 
having risen along with the sun from the wave, was 
now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his 
light. 

Such were the scenes that now successively pre- 
sented themselves, mingling with the vague reveries 
that floated through my mind, as our boat, with its 
high, capacious sail, swept along the flood. Though 
the occurrences of the last few days appeared to me 
one continued series of wonders, yet by far the most 
striking marvel of all was, that she, whose first look 
had sent wild-fire into my heart, — whom I had 
thought of ever since with a restlessness of passion, 
that would have dared any thing on earth to obtain 
its object, — was now resting sacredly within that 
small pavilion, while guarding her, even from myself, 
I lay calmly at its threshold. 

Meanwhile, the sun had reached his meridian 
height. The busy hum of the morning had died gra- 
dually away, and all around was sleeping in the hot 
stillness of noon. The Nile-goose, having folded up 
her splendid wings, was lying motionless on the sha- 
dow of the sycamores in the water. Even the nim- 
ble lizards upon the bank appeared to move more 
languidly, as the light fell upon the gold and azure 
hues.®^ Overcome as I was with watching, Snd 
weary with thought, it was not long before I yielded 
to the becalming influence of the hour. Looking 
fixedly at the pavilion, — as if once more to assure 
myself that I was not already in a dream, but that 
the young Egyptian was really there, — I felt my eyes 
close as I gazed, and in a few minutes sunk into a 
profound sleep. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


81 


CHAPTER XII. 

It was by the canal through which we now sail- 
ed,™ that, in the more prosperous days of Memphis, 
the commerce of Upper Egypt and Nubia was trans- 
ported to her magnificent Lake, and from thence, 
having paid tribute to the queen of cities, was pour- 
ed out again, through the Nile, into the ocean. The 
course of this canal to the river was not direct, but 
ascending in a south-easterly direction towards the 
Said ; and in calms, or with adverse winds, the pass- 
age was tedious. But as the breeze was now blow- 
ing freshly from the north, there was every prospect 
of our reaching the river before nightfall. Rapidly, 
too, as our galley swept along the flood, its motion 
was so smooth as to be hardly felt ; and the quiet gur- 
gle of the waters, and the drowsy song of the boat- 
man at the prow, were the onlj?^ sounds that disturbed 
the deep silence which prevailed. 

The sun, indeed, had nearly sunk behind the Liby- 
an hills, before the sleep, into which these sounds 
had contributed to lull me, was broken ; and the first 
object on which my eyes rested, in waking, was that 
fair young Priestess, — seated within a porch which 
shaded the door of the pavilion, and bending intently 
over a small volume that lay unrolled on her lap. 

Her face was but half turned towards me ; and as 
she, once or twice, raised her eyes to the warm sky, 
whose light fell, softened through the trellis, over her 
cheek, I found all those feelings of reverence, which 
she had inspired me with in the chapel, return. 
There was eveji a purer and holier charm around 
her countenance, thus seen by the natural light of 
day, than in those dim and unhallowed regions be- 
iow. She was now looking, too, direct to the glo- 


82 THE EPICUREAN. 

rious sky, and her pure eyes and that heaven, so 
worthy of each other, met. 

After contemplating her for a few moments, with 
little less than adoration, I rose gently from my rest- 
ing-place, and approached the pavilion. But the 
mere movement had startled her from her devotion, 
and, blushing and confused, she covered the volume 
with the folds of her robe. 

In the art of winning upon female confidence, I 
had, of course, long been schooled ; and, now that to 
the lessons of gallantry the inspiration of love was 
added, my ambition to please and to interest could 
hardly, it may be supposed, fail of success. I soon 
found, however, how much less fluent is the heart 
than the fancy, and how diflferent from each other 
may be the operations of making love and feeling it. 
In the few words of greeting now exchanged be- 
tween us, it was evident that the gay, the enterpris- 
ing Epicurean was little less embarrassed than the 
secluded Priestess ; — and, after one or two ineffectual 
efforts to bring our voices acquainted with each 
other, the eyes of both turned bashfully away, and 
we relapsed into silence. 

From this situation — the result of timidity on one 
side, and of a feeling altogether new, on the other — 
we were, at length, relieved, after an interval of en- 
largement, by the boatmen announcing that the Nile 
was in sight. The countenance of the young Eyp- 
tian brightened at this intelligence ; and the smile 
with which I congratulated her upon the speed of 
our voyage was responded to by another from her, 
so full of gratitude, that already an instinctive sym- 
pathy seemed established between us. 

We were now upon the point of entering that sa- 
cred river, for a draught of whose sweet flood the 
royal daughters of the Ptolemies, when far away, on 
foreign thrones, have been known to sigh in the 
midst of their splendour.''^ As our boat, with slack- 
ened sail, was gliding into the current, an inquiry 


THE EPICUREAN. 


83 


from the boatmen, whether they should anchor for 
the night in the Nile, first reminded me of the igno- 
rance in which I still remained, with respect to either 
the motive or destination of our voyage. Embar- 
rassed by their question, I directed my eyes towards 
the Priestess, whom I saw waiting for my answer 
with a look of anxiety, which this silent reference to 
her w ishes at once dispelled. Unfolding eagerly the 
volume with which I had seen her so much occupied, 
she took from between its folds a small leaf of papy- 
rus, on which there appeared to be some faint lines 
of drawing, and after looking upon it thoughtfully 
for a few moments, placed it, with an agitated hand, 
in mine. 

In the mean time, the boatman had taken in their 
sail, and the yatch drove slowly down the river with 
the current, while, by a light which had been kin- 
dled at sunset on the deck, I stood examining the 
leaf that the Priestess had given me, — her dark eyes 
fixed anxiously on my countenance all the while. 
The lines traced upon the papyrus were so faint as 
to be almost invisible, and I was for some time 
wholly unable to form a conjecture as to their im- 
port. At length, however, I succeeded in discover- 
ing that they were the outlines, or map — traced 
slightly and unsteadily with a Memphian reed — of 
a part of that mountainous ridge by which Upper 
Egypt is bounded to the east, together with the 
names, or rather emblems of the chief towns in its 
immediate neighbourhood. 

It was thither, I now saw clearly, that the young 
Priestess wished to pursue her course. Without 
further delay, therefore, I ordered the boatmen to 
s'^t our yatch before the wind, and ascend the cur- 
rent. My command was promptly obeyed : the 
white sail again rose into the region of the breeze, 
and the satisfaction that beamed in every feature of 
the fair Egyptian showed that the quickness with 
which I had attended to her wishes was not unfelt 


84 


THE EPICUREAN. 


by her. The moon had now risen ; and though the 
current was against us, the Etesian wind of the sea- 
son blew strongly up the river, and we were soon 
floating before it, through the rich plains and groves 
of the Said. 

The love with which the simple girl had inspired 
me, was, perhaps, from the mystic scenes and situa- 
tions in which I had seen her — not unmingled with 
a tinge of superstitious awe, under the influence of 
which I felt the natural buoyancy of my spirit re- 
pressed. The few words that had passed between 
us on the subject of our route had somewhat loosen- 
ed this spell ; and what I wanted of vivacity and 
confidence was more than compensated by the tone 
of deep sensibility which love had awakened in their 
place. 

We had not proceeded far before the glittering 
of lights at a distance, and the shooting up of fire- 
works, at intervals, into the air, apprized us that we 
were then approaching one of the night- fairs, or 
marts, which it is the custom, at this season, to hold 
upon the Nile. To me the scene was familiar ; but 
to my young companion it was evidently a new 
world ; and the mixture of alarm and delight with 
which she gazed, from under her veil, upon the busy 
scene into which we now sailed, gave an air of in- 
nocence to her beauty, which still more heightened 
its every charm. 

^ It was one of the widest parts of the river ; and 
the whole surface, from one bank to the other, was 
covered with boats. Along the banks of a green is- 
land, in the middle of the stream, lay anchored the 
galleys of the principal traders, — large floating ba- 
zars, bearing each the name of its owner, emblazoned 
in letters of flame, upon the stern.'^^ Over their decks 
were spread out, in gay confusion, the products of the 
loom and needle of Egypt, — rich carpets of Memphis, 
and those variegated veils, for which the female em- 
broiderers of the Nile are so celebrated, and to which 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


85 


the name of Cleopatra lends a traditional charm. In 
each of the other galleys was exhibited some branch 
of Egyptian workmanship — vases of the fragrant 
porcelain of On, — cups of that frail crystal, whose 
hues change like those of the pigeon’s plumage,"^^ — 
enamelled amulets graven with the head of Anubis, 
and necklaces and bracelets of the black beans of 
Abyssinia.'^^ 

While Commerce was thus displaying all her luxu- 
ries in one quarter, in every other. Pleasure swarm- 
ed, in her thousand shapes, over the waters. Nor 
was the festivity confined to the river alone ; as along 
the banks of the island and on the shores, there were 
seen illuminated mansions glittering through the trees, 
from whence sounds of music and merriment came. 
In some of the boats were bands of minstrels, who, 
from time to time, answered each other, like echoes, 
across the wave ; and the notes of the lyre, the fla- 
geolet, and the sweet lotus-wood flute, were heard, in 
the pauses of revelry, dying along the waters.'^^ 

Meanwhile, from other boats stationed in the least 
•lighted places, the workers of fire sent forth their 
wonders into the air. Bursting out suddenly from 
time to time, as if in the very exuberance of joy, 
these sallies of flame appeared to reach the sky, and 
there, breaking into a shower of sparkles, shed such 
a splendour around, as brightened even the white 
Arabian hills, — making them shine like the brow of 
Mount Atlas at night, when the fire from his own bo- 
som is playing around its snows.^® 

The opportunity this mart afforded us, of providing 
ourselves with some less remarkable habiliments than 
those in which we had escaped from that nether 
world, was too seasonable not to be gladly taken ad- 
vantage of by both. For myself, the strange mystic 
garb which I wore was sufficiently concealed by my 
Grecian mantle, which I had fortunately thrown 
round me on the night of my watch. But the thin 
veil of my companion was a far less efficient disguise. 

8 


86 


THE EPICUR E AN. 


She had, indeed, flung away the golden beetles from 
her hair; but the sacred robe of her order was still 
too visible, and the stars of the bandelet shone brightly 
through her veil. 

Most gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of this 
opportunity of a change ; and, as she took from out 
a casket — which, with the volume I had seen her 
reading, appeared to be her only treasure— a small 
jewel, to give in exchange for the simple garments 
she had chosen, there fell out, at the same time, the 
very cross of silver, which I had seen her kiss, as 
may be remembered, in the monumental chapel, and 
which was afterwards pressed to my own lips. This 
link between us (for such it now appeared to my ima- 
gination) called up again in my heart all the burning 
feelings of that moment ; — and, had I not abruptly 
turned away, my agitation would, but too plainly 
have betrayed itself. 

The object, for which we had delayed in this gay 
scene, having been accomplished, the sail was again 
spread, and we proceeded on our course up the river. 
The sounds and the lights we left behind died gradu- 
ally away, and we now floated along in moonlight and 
silence once more. Sweet dews, worthy of being 
called “ the tears of Isis,” fell refreshingly through the 
air, and every plant and flower sent its fragrance to 
meet them.'^'^ The wind, just strong enough to bear 
us smoothly against the current, scarce stirred the 
shadow of the tamarisks on the water. As the in- 
habitants from all quarters were collected at the night- 
fair, the Nile was more than usually still and solitary. 
Such a silence, indeed, prevailed, that, as we glided 
near the shore, we could hear the rustling of the aca- 
cias, as the chameleons ran up their sterns.'^® It was, 
altogether, such a night as only the climate of Egypt 
can boast, when the whole scene around lies lulled in 
that sort of bright tranquility, which may be imagin- 
ed to light the slumbers of those happy spirits, who 


THE EPICUREAN. 


87 


are said to rest in the Valley of the Moon, on their 
way to heavenJ^ 

By such a light, and at such an hour, seated, side 
by side, on the deck of that bark, did we pursue our 
course up the lonely Nile — each a mystery to the 
other — our thoughts, our objects, our very names a 
secret ; — separated, too, till now, by destinies so dif- 
ferent ; the one, a gay voluptuary of the Garden of 
Athens, the other, a secluded Priestess of the Tem- 
ples of Memphis ; — and the only relation yet esta- 
blished between us being that dangerous one of love, 
passionate love, on one side, and the most feminine 
and confiding dependence on the other. ^ 

The passing adventure of the night-fair had not 
only dispelled still more our mutual reserve, but had 
supplied us with a subject on which we could con- 
verse without embarrassment. From this topic I 
took care to lead on, without interruption, to others, 
— fearful lest our former silence should return, and 
the music of her voice again be lost to me. It was, 
indeed, only by thus indirectly unburdening my heart 
that I was enabled to refrain from the full utterance 
of all I thought and felt ; and the restle&s rapidity 
with which I flew from subject to subject was but an 
effort to escape from the only one in which my heart 
was interested. 

“ How bright and happy,” said I, — pointing up to 
Sothis, the fair Star of the Waters, which was just then 
shining brilliantly over our heads,®® — “ How bright 
and happy this world ought to be, if— as your Egyp- 
tian sages assert — yon pure and beautiful luminary 
was its birth- star !”®^ Then, still leaning back, and 
letting my eyes wander over the firmament, as if 
seeking to disengage them from the fascination which 
they dreaded — “ To the study,” I exclaimed, “ for 
ages, of skies like this, may the pensive and mystic 
character of your nation be traced. That mixture 
of pride and melancholy which naturally arises, at 
the sight of those eternal lights shining out of dark- 


88 


THE EPICUREAN. 


ness ; — that sublime, but saddened, anticipation of a 
Future, which comes over the soul in the silence of 
such an hour, when, though Death seems to reign in 
the repose of earth, there are yet those beacons of 
Immortality burning in the sky — ” 

Pausing, as I uttered the word “ immortality,” with 
a sigh to think how little my heart echoed to my lips, 
I looked in the face of my companion, and saw that 
it had lighted up, as I spoke, into a glow of holy ani- 
mation, such as Faith alone gives — such as Hope her- 
self wears, when she is dreaming of heaven. Touch- 
ed by the contrast, and gazing upon her with mourn- 
ful tenderness, I found my arms half opened, to clasp 
her to my heart, while the words died away inaudibly 
upon my lips, — “ Thou, too, beautiful maiden ! must 
thou, too, die for ever ?” 

My self-command, I felt, had nearly deserted me. 
Rising abruptly from my seat, I walked to the middle 
of the deck, and stood, for some moments, unconsci- 
ously gazing upon one of those fires, which — accord- 
ing to the custom of all who travel by night on the 
Nile — our boatmen had kindled, to scare away the 
crocodiles from the vessel. But it was in vain that 
1 endeavoured to compose my spirit. Every effort I 
made but more deeply convinced me, that, till the 
mystery which hung round that maiden should be 
solved — till the secret, with which my own bosom la- 
boured, should be disclosed — it was fruitless to attempt 
even a semblance of tranquility. 

My resolution was therefore taken ; — to lay open, 
at least my own heart, as far as such a revelation 
might be risked, without startling the timid innocence 
of my companion. Thus resolved, I resumed my 
seat, with more composure, by her side, and taking 
from my bosom the small mirror which she had drop 
ped in the Temple, and which I had ever since woj’n 
suspended round my neck, presented it with a trem- 
bling hand to her view. The boatmen had just kind- 
led one of their night-fires near us, and its light, as 


THE EPICUREAN. 


89 


she leaned forwards towards the mirror, fell upon her 
face. 

The quick blush of surprise with which she recog- 
nised it to be hers, and her look of bashful, yet eager, 
inquiry, in raising her eyes to mine, were appeals to 
which I was not, of course, tardy in answering. Be- 
ginning with the first moment when I saw her in the • 
Temple, and passing hastily, but with words that 
burned as they went, over the impression which she 
had then left upon my heart and fancy, I proceeded 
to describe the particulars of my descent into the py- 
ramid — my surprise and adoration at the door of the 
chapel — my encounter with the Trials of Initiation, 
so mysteriously prepared for me, and all the various 
visionary wonders I had witnessed in that region, till 
the moment when I had seen her stealing from under 
the Veils to approach me. 

Though, in detailing these events, I had said but 
little of the feelings they had awakened in me, — 
though my lips had sent back many a sentence, un- 
uttered, there was still enough that could neither be 
subdued or disguised, and which, like that light from 
under the veils of her own Isis, glowed through every 
word that I spoke. When I told of the scene in the 
chapel, — of the silent interview which I had wit- 
nessed between the dead and the living, — the maiden 
leaned down her head and wept, as from a heart full 
of tears. It seemed a pleasure to her, however, to 
listen ; and, when she looked at me again, there was 
an earnest and affectionate cordiality in her eyes, as 
if the knowledge of my having been present at that 
mournful scene had opened a new source of sympa- 
thy and intelligence between us. So neighbouring 
are the fountains of Love and of Sorrow, and so im- 
perceptibly do they often mingle their streams. 

Little, indeed, as I was guided by art or design, in 
my manner and conduct towards this innocent girl, 
not all the most experienced gallantry of the Garden 
could have dictated a policy half so seductive as that 
8 # 


90 


the epicurean. 


which my new master, Love, now taught me. The 
same ardour which, if shown at once, and without 
reserve, might probably have startled a heart so little 
prepared for it, being now checked and softened by 
the timidity of real love, won its way without alarm, 
and, when most diffident of success, was then most 
surely on its way to triumph. Like one whose slum- 
bers are gradually broken by music, the maiden’s 
heart was awakened without being disturbed. She 
followed the course of the charm, unconscious whither 
it led, nor was even aware of the flame she had 
lighted in another’s bosom, till startled by the reflec- 
tion of it glimmering in her own. 

Impatient as I was to appeal to her generosity and 
sympathy, for a similar proof of confidence to that 
which I had just given, the night was now too far 
advanced for me to impose upon her such a task. 
After exchanging a few words, in which, though lit- 
tle met the ear, there was a tone and manner, on 
both sides, that spoke far more than language, we 
took a lingering leave of each other for the night, 
with every prospect, I fondly hoped, of being still 
together in our dreams. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

It was so near the dawn of day when we parted, 
that we found the sun sinking westward when we 
rejoined each other. The smile, so frankly cordial, 
with which she now met me, might have been taken 
for the greeting of a long mellowed friendship, did 
not the blush and the cast- down eyelid that followed, 
give symptoms of a feeling newer and less calm. For 
myself, lightened as I was, in some degree, by the 
confession which I had made, I was yet too conscious 


THE EPICUREAN. 


91 


of the new aspect thus given to our intercourse, not 
to feel some alarm at the prospect of returning to 
the theme. We were both, therefore, alike willing 
to suffer our attention to be diverted, by the variety 
of strange objects that presented themselves on the 
way, from a subject that both equally trembled to 
approach. 

The river was now all full of motion and life. 
Every instant we met with boats descending the 
current, so wholly independent of aid from sail or 
oar, that the mariners sat idly upon the deck as they 
shot along, either singing or playing upon their double- 
reeded pipes. The greater number of these boats 
came laden with those large emeralds, from the mine 
in the desert, whose colours, it is said, are brightest 
at the full of the moon ; while some of them brought 
cargoes of frankincense from the acacia-groves near 
the Red Sea. On the decks of others, that had been, 
as we learned, to the Golden Mountains,®* beyond 
Syene, were heaped blocks and fragments of that 
sweet- smelling wood, which is yearly washed down, 
by the Green Nile of Nubia, at the season of the 

floods.®^ 

Our companions up the stream were far less nu- 
merous. Occasionally a boat, returning lightened 
from the fair of last night, shot rapidly past us, with 
those high sails that catch every breeze from over 
the hills ; — while, now and then, we overtook one of 
those barges full of bees,* that are sent at this season 
to colonise the gardens of the south, and take advan- 
tage of the first flowers after the inundation has 
passed away. 

For a short time, this constant variety of objects 
enabled us to divert so far our conversation as to 
keep it from lighting upon the one, sole object, round 
which it constantly hovered. But the effort, as might 
be expected, was not long successful. As evening 


• Maillet. 


92 


THE EPICUREAN. 


advanced, the whole scene became more solitary. 
We less frequently ventured to look upon each other, 
and our intervals of silence grew more long. 

It was near sunset, when, in passing a small temple 
on the shore, whose porticoes were now full of the 
evening light, we saw issuing from a thicket of acan- 
thus near it, a train of young maidens gracefully 
linked together in the dance by stems of the lotus 
held at arms’ length between them. Their tresses 
were also wreathed with this gay emblem of the 
season, and in such profusion were its white flowers 
twisted round their waists and arms, that they might 
have been taken, as they lightly bounded along the 
bank, for Nymphs of the Nile, then freshly risen from 
their bright gardens under the wave.®^ 

After looking for a few minutes at this sacred 
dance, the maiden turned away her eyes, with a look 
of pain, as if the remembrances it recalled were of 
no welcome nature. This momentary retrospect, 
this glimpse into the past, appeared to offer a sort of 
clue to the secret for which I panted ; — and accord- 
ingly I proceeded, as gradually and delicately as my 
impatience would allow, to avail myself of the open- 
ing. Her own frankness, however, relieved me from 
the embarrassment of much questioning. She seemed 
even to feel that the confidence I sought was due to 
me ; and beyond the natural hesitation of maidenly 
modesty, not a shade of reserve or evasion appeared. 

To attempt to repeat, in her own touching words, 
the simple story which she now related to me, would 
be like endeavouring to note down some strain of 
unpremeditated music, with all those fugitive graces, 
those felicities of the moment, which no art can re- 
store, as they first met the ear. From a feeling, too, 
of humility, she had onfitted in her short narrative 
several particulars relating to herself, which I after- 
wards leaiined ; — while others, not less important, 
she but slightly passed over, from a fear of offending 
the prejudices of her heathen hearer. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


93 


I shall, therefore, give her story, not as she, her- 
self, sketched it, but as it was afterwards filled up by 
a pious and venerable hand, — far, far more worthy 
than mine of being associated with the memory of 
such purity. 


STORY OF ALETHE. 

“ The mother of this maiden was the beautiful 
Theora of Alexandria, who, though a native of that 
city, was descended from Grecian parents. When 
very young, Theora was one of the seven maidens 
selected to note down the discourses of the eloquent 
Origen, who, at that period, presided over the School 
of Alexandria, and was in all the fulness of his fame 
among Pagans and Christians. Endowed richly 
with the learning of both creeds, he brought the na- 
tural light of philosophy to illustrate the mysteries of 
faith, and was then only proud of his knowledge of 
the wisdom of this world, when he found it minister 
usefully to the triumph of divine truth. 

“Though he had courted in vain the crown of 
martyrdom, it was, throughout his whole life, held 
suspended over his head, and he had more than 
once shown himself ready to die for that faith which 
he lived but to uphold and adorn. On one of these 
occasions, his tormentors, having habited him like an 
Egyptian priest, placed him upon the steps of the 
Temple of Serapis, and commanded that he should, 
in the manner of the Pagan ministers, present palm- 
branches to the multitude who went up into the 
shrine. But the courageous Christian disappointed 
their views. Holding forth the branches with an un- 
shrinking hand, he cried aloud, ‘ Come hither and take 
the branch, not of an Idol Temple, but of Christ.’ 

“ So indefatigable was this learned Father in his 
studies, that, while composing his Commentary on 


94 


THE EPICUREAN. 


the Scriptures, he was attended by seven scribes or 
notaries, who relieved each other in recording the 
dictates of his eloquent tongue ; while the same num- 
ber of young females, selected for the beauty of their 
penmanship, were employed in arranging and tran- 
scribing the precious leaves. 

“Among the scribes so selected, was the fair 
young Theora, whose parents, though attached to 
the Pagan worship, were not unwilling to profit by 
the accomplishments of their daughter, thus devoted 
to a task, which they looked on as purely mechani- 
cal. To the maid herself, however, her employment 
brought far other feelings and consequences. She. 
read anxiously as she wrote, and the divine truths, 
so eloquently illustrated, found their way, by degrees, 
from the page to her heart. Deeply, too, as the 
written words affected her, the discourses from the 
lips of the great teacher himself, which she had fre- 
quent opportunities of hearing, sunk still more deeply 
into her mind. There was, at once, a sublimity and 
gentleness in his views of religion, which, to the ten- 
der hearts and lively imaginations of women, never 
failed to appeal with convincing power. According- 
ly, the list of his female pupils was numerous ; and 
the names of Barbara, Juliana, Herais, and others, 
bear honourable testimony to his influence over that 
sex. 

“ To Theora the feeling, with which his discourses 
inspired her, was like a new soul, — a consciousness 
of spiritual existence, never before felt. By the elo- 
quence of the comment she was awakened into ad- 
miration of the text ; and when, by the kindness of 
a Catechumen of the school, who had been struck 
by her innocent zeal, she, for the first time, became 
possessor of a copy of the Scriptures, she could not 
sleep for thinking of her sacred treasure. With a 
mixture of pleasure and fear she hid it from all eyes, 
and was like one who had received a divine guest 


THE EPICUREAN. 


95 


under her roof, and felt fearful of betraying its divi- 
nity to the world. 

“ A heart so awake would have been with ease se- 
cured to the faith, had her opportunities of hearing 
the sacred word continued. But circumstances arose 
to deprive her of this advantage. The mild Origen, 
long harassed and thwarted in his labours by the 
tyranny of Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, was 
obliged to relinquish his school and fly from Egypt. 
The occupation of the fair scribe was, therefore, at 
an end : her intercourse with the followers of the 
new faith ceased ; and the growing enthusiasm of 
her heart gave way to more worldly impressions. 

“ Among other feqlings love conduced not a little 
to wean her thoughts from the true religion. While 
still very young, she became the wife of a Greek ad- 
venturer, who had come to Egypt as a purchaser 
of that rich tapestry,®® in which the needles of Persia 
are rivalled by the looms of the Nile. Having taken 
his young bride to Memphis, which was still the 
great mart of this merchandise, he there, in the 
midst of his speculations, died — leaving his widow 
on the point of becoming a mother, while, as yet, but 
in her nineteenth year. 

“ For single and unprotected females, it has been, 
at all times, a favourite resource, to seek for employ- 
ment in the service of some of those great temples 
by which so large a portion of the wealth and power 
of Egypt is absorbed. In most of these institutions 
there exists an order of Priestesses, which, though 
not hereditary, like that of the Priests, is provided 
for by ample endowments, and confers that dignity 
and station, with which, in a government so theocra- 
tic, Religion is sure to invest even her humblest 
handmaids. From the general policy of the Sacred 
College of Memphis, we may take for granted, that 
an accomplished female, like' Theora, found but little 
difficulty in being elected one of the Priestesses of 


96 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Isis ; and it was in the service of the subterranean 
shrines that her ministry chiefly lay. 

“ Here, a month or two after her admission, she 
gave birth to Alethe, who first opened her eyes 
among the unholy pomps and specious miracles of 
this mysterious region. Though Theora, as we have 
seen, had been diverted by other feelings from her 
first enthusiasm for the Christian faith, she had never 
wholly forgot the impression then made upon her. 
The sacred volume, which the pious Catechumen 
had given her, was still treasured with care ; and, 
though she seldom opened its pages, there w^as al- 
ways an idea of sanctity associated with it in her 
memory, and often would she sit to look upon it with 
reverential pleasure, recalling the happiness she had 
felt when it was first made her own. 

“ The leisure of her new retreat, and the lone me- 
lancholy of widowhood, led her still more frequently 
to indulge in such thoughts, and to recur to those 
consoling truths which she had heard in the school 
of Alexandria. She now began to peruse eagerly 
the sacred volume, drinking deep of the fountain of 
which she before but tasted, and feeling — what thou- 
sands of mourners, since her, have felt — that Chris- 
tianity is the true and only religion of the sorrowful. 

“ The study of her secret hours became still more 
dear to her, from the very peril with which, at that 
period, it was attended, as well as from the necessity 
she felt herself under of concealing from all those 
around her the precious light that had been thus 
kindled in her own heart. Too timid to encounter 
the fierce persecution, which awaited all who were 
suspected of a leaning to Christianity, she continued 
to officiate in the pomps and ceremonies of the Tem- 
ple 5 — though, often, with such remorse of soul, that 
she would pause, in the midst of the rites, and pray 
inwardly to God, that he would forgive her this pro- 
fanation of his Spirit. 

“ In the mean time her daughter, the young Alethe, 


THE EPIC UREAN. 


97 


grew up still lovelier than herself, and added, every 
hour, to her happiness and her fears. When arrived 
at a sufficient age, she was taught, like the other 
children of the priestesses, to take a share in the ser- 
vice and ceremonies of the shrines. The duty of 
some of these young servitors was to look after the 
flowers from the altar — of others, to take care 
that the sacred vases were filled every day with 
fresh water from the Nile. The task of some was to 
preserve, in perfect polish, the silver images of the 
Moon which the priests carried in processions ; while 
others were, as we have seen, employed in feeding 
the consecrated animals, and in keeping their plumes 
and scales bright for the admiring eyes of their wor- 
shippers. 

“ The office allotted to Alethe — the most honour- 
able, of these minor ministries — was to wait upon the 
sacred birds of the Moon, to feed them daily with 
those eggs from the Nile which they loved, and pro- 
vide for their use that purest water, which alone these 
delicate birds will touch. This employment was the 
delight of her childish hours ; and that ibis, which 
Alciphron (the Epicurean) saw her dance round in 
the Temple, was of all the sacred flock, her especial 
favourite, and had been daily fondled and fed by her 
from infancy. 

“ Music, as being one of the chief spells of this en- 
chanted region, was an accomplishment required of 
all its ministrants ; and the harp, the lyre, and the 
sacred flute, sounded no where so sweetly as through 
these subterranean gardens. The chief object, in- 
deed, in the education of the youth of the Temple, 
was to fit them, by every grace of art and nature, to 
give effect to the illusion of those shows and phan- 
tasms, in which the entire charm and secret of Initi- 
ation lay. 

“ Among the means employed to support the old 
system of superstition, against the infidelity, and, still 
more, the new Faith that menaced it, was an in- 
9 


98 


THE EPICUREAN. 


creased prodigality of splendour and marvels in those 
Mysteries for which Egypt has so long been celebra- 
ted. Of these ceremonies so many imitations had, 
under various names, multiplied throughout Europe, 
that the parent superstition ran a risk of being 
eclipsed by its progeny ; and, in order still to rank 
as the hrst Priesthood in the world, it became neces- 
sary for those of Egypt to continue still the best im- 
postors. 

“Accordingly, every contrivance that art could 
devise, or labour execute, — every resource yiat the 
wonderful knowledge of the Priests, in pyrotechny, 
mechanics, and dioptrics, could command, — was 
brought into action to heighten the effect of their 
Mysteries, and give an air of enchantment to every 
thing connected with them. 

“The final scene of beatification, — the Elysium, 
into which the Initiate was received, — formed, of 
course, the leading attraction of these ceremonies ; 
and to render it captivating alike to the senses of the 
man of pleasure, and the imagination of the spiritual- 
ist, was the object to which the whole skill and at- 
tention of the Sacred College were devoted. By the 
influence of the Priests of Memphis over those of the 
other Temples they had succeeded in extending their 
subterranean frontier, both to the north and south, 
so as to include, within their ever-lighted Paradise, 
some of the gardens excavated for the use of the 
other Twelve Shrines. 

“ The beauty of the young Alethe, the touching 
sweetness of her voice, and sensibility that breathed 
throughout her every look and movement, rendered 
her a powerful auxiliary in such appeals to the ima- 
gination. She had been, accordingly, in her very 
childhood, selected from among her fair companions, 
as the most worthy representative of spiritual love- 
liness, in those pictures of Elysium — those scenes of 
another world — by which not only the fancy, but the . 
reason, of the excited Aspirants was dazzled. 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


99 


“To the innocent child herself these shows were 
pastime. But to Theora, who knew too well the im- 
position to which they were subservient, this profa- 
nation of all that she loved was a perpetual source of 
horror and remorse. Often would she — when Alethe 
stood smiling before her, arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit 
of the Elysian world, — turn away, with a shudder, 
from the happy child, almost fancying that she al- 
ready saw the shadows of sin descending over that 
innocent brow, as she gazed upon it. 

“ As the intellect of the young maid became more 
active and inquiring, the apprehensions and difficul- 
ties of the mother increased. Afraid to communi- 
cate her own precious secret, lest she should involve 
her child in the dangers that encompassed it, she yet 
felt it to be no less a cruelty than a crime to leave 
her wholly immersed in the darkness of Paganism. 
In this dilemma, the only resource that remained to 
her was to select, and disengage from the dross that 
surrounded them, those pure particles of truth which 
lie at the bottom of all religions ; — those feelings, ra- 
ther than doctrines, of which God has never left his 
creatures destitute, and which, in all ages, have fur- 
nished, to those who sought after it, some clue to his 
glory. 

“ The unity and perfect goodness of the Creator ; 
the fall of the human soul into corruption ; its strug- 
gles with the darkness of this world, and its final re- 
demption and reascent to the source of all spirit ; — 
these natural solutions of the problem of our exist- 
ence, these elementary grounds of all religion and 
virtue, which Theora had heard illustrated by her 
Christian teacher, lay also, she knew, veiled under 
the theology of Egypt ; and to impress them, in their 
abstract purity, upon the mind of her susceptible pu- 
pil, was, in default of more heavenly lights, her sole 
ambition and care. 

“ It was generally their habit, after devoting their 
mornings to the service of the Temple, to pass their 


100 


THE EPICUREAN. 


evenings and nights in one of those small mansions 
above ground, allotted, within the precincts of the 
Sacred College, to some of the most favoured Priest- 
esses. Here, out of the reach of those gross super- 
stitions, which pursued them, at every step, below, 
she endeavoured to inform, as far as she could ven- 
ture, the mind of her beloved girl ; and found it lean 
as naturally and instinctively to truth, as plants long 
shut up in darkness will, when light is let in upon 
them, inpline themselves to its rays. 

“ Frequently, as they sat together on the terrace at 
night, admiring that glorious assembly of stars, whose 
beauty first misled mankind into idolatry, she would 
explain to the young listener by what gradations it 
was that the worship, thus transferred from the Cre- 
ator to the creature, sunk still lower and lower in the 
scale of being, till man, at length, presumed to deify 
man, and by the most monstrous of inversions, heaven 
became at last the mirror of earth, reflecting back all 
its most earthly features. 

“ Even in the Temple itself, the anxious mother 
would endeavour to interpose her purer lessons among 
the idolatrous ceremonies in which they were en- 
gaged. When the favourite ibis of Alethe took its 
station on the shrine, and the young maiden was seen 
approaching, with all the gravity of worship, the very 
bird which she had played with but an hour before, 
— when the acacia-bough, which she herself had 
plucked, seemed to acquire a sudden sacred ness in 
her eyes, as soon as the priest had breathed upon it, 
— on all such occasions Theora, though with fear and 
trembling, would venture to suggest to the youthful 
worshipper the distinction that should be drawn be- 
tween the sensible object of adoration, and that spi- 
ritual, unseen Deity, of which it was but the remem- 
brancer or type. 

“With sorrow, however, she, soon discovered that, 
in thus but partially letting in light upon a mind far 
too ardent to rest satisfied with such glimmerings, 




THE EPICUREAN. 


101 


she but bewildered the heart which she meant to 
guide, and cut down the feeble hope around which 
its faith twined, without substituting any other sup- 
port in its place. As the beauty, too, of Alethe be- 
gan to attract all eyes, new fears crowded upon the 
mother's heart ; — fears, in which she was but too 
much justified by the characters of some of those 
around her. 

In this sacred abode, as may easily be conceived, 
morality did not always go hand and hand with re- 
ligion. The hypocritical and ambitious Orcus, who 
was, at this period. High Priest of Memphis, was a 
man, in every respect, qualified to preside over a 
system of such splendid fraud. He had reached that 
efiective time of life, when enough of the warmth 
and vigour of youth remains to give animation to the 
counsels of age. But, in his instance, youth had left 
only the baser passions behind, while age but brought 
with it a more refined maturity of mischief. The 
advantages of a faith appealing almost wholly to the 
senses, were well understood by him ; nor had he 
failed either to discover that, in order to render re- 
ligion subservient to his own interests, he must shape 
it adroitly to the interests and passions of others. 

“ The state of remorse and misery in which the 
mind of Theora was constantly kept by the scenes, 
however artfully veiled, which she daily witnessed 
around her, became 'dt length intolerable. No perils 
that the cause of truth could bring with it would be 
half so dreadful as this endurance of sinfulness and 
deceit. Her child was, as yet, pure and innocent ; 
but, without that sentinel of the soul. Religion, how 
long might she continue so ? 

“ This thought at once decided her : all other fears 
vanished before it. She resolved instantly to lay 
open to Alethe the whole secret of her soul ; to make 
this child, who was her only hope on earth, the sha- 
rer of all her hopes in heaven, and then fly with her, 
as soon as possible, from this unhallowed spot, to the 

g* 


102 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


far desert — to the mountains — to any place, however 
desolate, where God and the consciousness of inno- 
cence might be with them. 

“ The promptitude with which her young pupil 
caught from her the divine truths was even beyond 
what she expected. It was like the lighting of one 
torch at another, so prepared was Alethe’s mind for 
the illumination. Amply was the anxious mother 
now repaid for all her misery, by this perfect com- 
munion of love and faith, and by the delight, with 
which she saw her beloved child — like the young 
antelope, when first led by her dam to the well — 
drink thirstily by her side, at the source of all life and 
truth. 

“ But such happiness was not long to last. The 
anxieties that Theora had suffered began to prey upon 
her health. She felt her strength daily decline ; and 
the thoughts of leaving, alone and unguarded in the 
world, that treasure which she had just devoted to 
Heaven, gave her a feeling of despair which but has- 
tened the ebb of life. Had she put in practice her 
resolution of flying from this place, her child might 
have been now beyond the reach of all she dreaded, 
and in the solitude of the desert would have found at 
least safety from wrong. But the very happiness 
she had felt in her new task diverted her from this 
project ; — and it was now too late, for she was already 
dying. 

“ She continued to conceal, however, her state from 
the tender and sanguine girl, who, though seeing the 
traces of disease upon her mother’s cheek, little knew 
that they were the hastening footsteps of death, nor 
thought even of the possibility of losing what was so 
dear to her. Too soon, however, the moment of se- 
paration arrived ; and while the anguish and dismay 
of Alethe were in proportion to the security in which 
she had indulged, Theora, too, felt, with bitter regret, 
that she had sacrificed to her fond consideration much 
precious time, and that there now remained but a few 


THE EPICUREAN. 


103 


brief and painful moments, for the communication 
of all those wishes and instructions on which the fu- 
ture destiny of the young orphan depended. 

“ She had, indeed, time for little more than to place 
the sacred volume solemnly in her hands, to implore 
that she would, at all risks, fly from this unholy place, 
and, pointing to the direction of the mountains of the 
Said, to name, with her last breath, the venerable 
man, to whom, under Heaven, she looked for the pro- 
tection and salvation of her child. 

“ The first violence of feeling to which Alethe gave 
way was succeeded by a fixed and tearless grief, 
which rendered her insensible, for some time, to the 
dangers of her situation. Her only comfort was in 
visiting that monumental chapel where the beautiful 
remains of Theora lay. There, night after night, in 
contemplation of those placid features, and in prayers 
for the peace of the departed spirit, did she pass her 
lonely, and — however sad they were — happiest hours. 
Though the mystic emblems that decorated that cha- 
pel were but ill-suited to the slumber of a Christian 
saint, there was one among them, the Cross, which, 
by a remarkable coincidence, is an emblem common 
alike to the Gentile and the Christian, — being, to the 
former, a shadowy type of that immortality, of 
which, to the latter, it is a substantial and assuring 
pledge. 

“ Nightly, upon this cross, which she had often seen 
her lost mother kiss, did she breathe forth a solemn 
and heartfelt vow, never to abandon the faith which 
that departed spirit had bequeathed to her. To such 
enthusiasm, indeed, did her heart at such moments 
rise, that, but for the last injunctions from those pallid 
lips, she would, at once, have avowed her perilous se- 
cret, and pronounced the words, ‘ I am a Christian,’ 
among those benighted shrines. 

“ But the will of her, to whom she owed more than 
life, was to be obeyed. To escape from this haunt 
of superstition must now, she felt, be her first object} 


104 


THE EPI CURE AN. 


and, in devising the means of effecting it, her mind, 
day and night, was employed. It was with a loath- 
ing not to be concealed, that she now found herself 
compelled to resume her idolatrous services at the 
shrine. To some of the offices of Theora she suc- 
ceeded, as is the custom, by inheritance ; and in the 
performance of these tasks — sanctified as they were 
in her eyes by the pure spirit she had seen engaged 
in them — there was a sort of melancholy pleasure in 
which her sorrow found relief. But the part she was 
again forced to take, in the scenic shows of the Mys- 
teries brought with it a sense of wrong and degrada- 
tion which she could no longer endure. 

“ Already had she formed, in her own mind, a plan 
of escape, in which her acquaintance with all the 
windings of this mystic realm gave her confidence, 
when the reception of Alciphron, as an Initiate, took 
place. 

“From the first moment of the landing of that 
philosopher at Alexandria, he had become an object 
of suspicion and watchfulness to the inquisitorial 
Orcus, whom philosophy, in any shape, naturally 
alarmed, but to whom the sect over which the young 
Athenian presided was particularly obnoxious. The 
accomplishments of Alciphron, his popularity, wher- 
ever he went, and the bold freedom with which he 
indulged his wit at the expense of religion, were all 
faithfully reported to the High Priest by his spies, 
and awakened in his mind no kindly feelings towards 
the stranger. In dealing with an infidel, such a per- 
sonage as Orcus could know no other alternative but 
that of either converting or destroying him ; and 
though his spite, as a man, would have been more 
gratified by the latter proceeding, his pride, as a priest, 
led him to prefer the triumph of the former. 

“ The first descent of the Epicurean into the pyra- 
mid became speedily known, and the alarm was im- 
mediately given to the Priests below. As soon as 
they had discovered that the young philosopher of 


THE EPICUREAN. 


105 


Athens was the intruder, and that he not only still 
continued to linger round the pyramid, but was ob- 
served to look often and wistfully towards the portal, 
it was concluded that his curiosity would impel him 
to try a second descent ; and Orcus, blessing the good 
chance which had thus brought the wild bird to his 
net, resolved not to suffer an opportunity so precious 
to be wasted. 

“ Instantly, the whole of that wonderful machinery, 
by which the phantasms and illusions of Initiation 
are produced, were put in active preparation through- 
out that subterranean realm ; and the increased stir and 
vigilance awakened among its inmates, by this more 
than ordinary display of the resources of priestcraft, 
rendered the accomplishment of Alethe’s purpose, at 
such a moment, peculiarly difficult. Wholly ignorant 
of the important share which it had been her own 
fortune to take in attracting the young philosopher 
down to this region, she but heard of him vaguely, as 
the Chief of a great Grecian sect, who had been led, 
by either curiosity or accident, to expose himself to 
the first trials of Initiation, and whom the priests, she 
could see, were endeavouring to insnare in their toils, 
by every art and lure with which their dark science 
had gifted them. 

“ To her mind, the image of a philosopher, such as 
Alciphron had been represented to her, came asso- 
ciated with ideas of age and reverence ; and, more 
than once, the possibility of his being made instru- 
mental to her deliverance flashed a hope across her 
heart in which she could not refrain from indulging. 
Often had she been told by Theoraof the many Gen- 
tile sages, who had laid their wisdom down humbly 
at the foot of the Cross ; and though this Initiate, 
she feared, could hardly be among the number, yet 
the rumours which she had gathered from the ser- 
vants of the Temple, of his undisguised contempt 
for the errors of heathenism, led her to hope she 


106 


THE EPICUREAN. 


might find tolerance, if not sympathy, in her appeal 
to him. 

“ Nor was it solely with a view to her own chance 
of deliverance that she thus connected him in her 
thoughts with the plan which she meditated. The 
look of proud and self-gratulating malice, with which 
the High Priest had mentioned this ‘ infidel,’ as he 
styled him, when instructing her in the scene she was 
to enact before the philosopher in the valley, but too 
plainly informed her of the destiny that hung over 
him. She knew how many were the hapless candi- 
dates for Initiation, who had been doomed to a dur- 
ance worse than that of the grave, for but a word, a 
whisper breathed against the sacred absurdities which 
they witnessed ; and it was evident to her that the 
venerable Greek (for such her fancy represented Al- 
ciphron) was lio less interested in escaping from the 
perils of this region than herself. 

“ Her own resolution was, at all events, fixed. That 
visionary scene, in which she had appeared before 
Alciphron, — little knowing how ardent were the heart 
and imagination, over which her beauty, at that mo- 
ment, exercised its influence, — was, she solemnly re- 
solved, the very last unholy service, that superstition 
or imposture should ever command of her. 

On the following night the Aspirant was to watch 
in the Great Temple of Isis. Such an opportunity 
of approaching and addressing him might never 
come again. Should he, from compassion for her 
situation, or a sense of the danger of his own, con- 
sent to lend his aid to her flight, most gladly would 
she accept it, — well assured that no danger or treach- 
ery she might risk could be half so odious and fear- 
ful as those which she left behind. Should he, on 
the contrary, refuse, her determination was equally 
fixed, — to trust to that God whose eye watches over 
the innocent, and go forth alone. 

“ To reach the island in Lake Mmris was her first 
great object ; and there occurred fortunately, at this 


THE EPICUREAN. 


107 


time, a mode of effecting her purpose, by which both 
the difficulty and dangers of the attempt would be 
much diminished. The day of the annual visitation 
of the High Priest to the Place of Weeping^ — as that 
island in the centre of the Lake is called — was now 
fast approaching; and Alethe knew that the self- 
moving car, by which the High Priest and one of 
the Hierophants are conveyed to the chambers un- 
der the Lake, stood then waiting in readiness. By 
availing herself of this expedient, she would gain the 
double advantage both of facilitating her own flight, 
and retarding the speed of her pursuers. 

“ Having paid a * last visit to the tomb of her be- 
loved mother, and wept there, long and passionately, 
till her heart almost failed in the struggle, — having 
paused, too, to give a kiss to her favourite ibis, which, 
though too much a Christian to worship, she was still 
child enough to love,— she went early, with a trem- 
bling step, to the Sanctuary, and there hid herself in 
one of the recesses of the Shrine. Her intention 
was to steal out from thence to Alciphron, while it 
was yet dark, and before the illumination of the 
great Statue behind the Veils had begun. But her 
fears delayed her till it was almost too late ; — already 
was the image lighted up, and still she remained 
trembling in her hiding-place. 

“ In a few minutes more the mighty Veils would 
have been withdrawn, and the glories of that scene 
of enchantment laid open, — when, at length, sum- 
moning all her courage, and taking advantage of a 
momentary absence of those employed in preparing 
this splendid mockery, she stole from under the Veil 
and found her way, through the gloom, to the Epi- 
curean. There was then no time for explanation ; — 
she had but to trust to the simple words, ‘ Follow, 
and be silent and the implicit readiness with which 
she found them obeyed filled her with no less sur- 


* V. Wilford, Asiatic Researches, vol. 3. p. 340. 


108 


THE EPICUREAN. 


prise than the philosopher himself had felt in hearing 
them. 

“In a second or two they were on their way 
through the subterranean windings, leaving the mi- 
nisters of Isis to waste their splendours on vacancy, 
through a long series of miracles and visions which 
they now exhibited, — unconscious that he, whom 
they were taking such pains to dazzle, was already, 
under the guidance of the young Christian, far re- 
moved beyond the reach of their deceiving spells.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Such was the singular story, of which this in- 
nocent girl now gave me, in her own touching lan- 
guage, the outline. 

The sun was just rising as she finished her narra- 
tive. Fearful of encountering the expression of those 
feelings with which, she could not but observe, I 
was affected by her recital scarcely had she con- 
cluded the last sentence, when, rising abruptly from 
her seat, she hurried into the pavilion, leaving me 
with the words already crowding for utterance to 
my lips. 

Oppressed by the various emotions thus sent back 
upon my heart, I lay down on the deck in a state of 
agitation, that defied even the most distant ap- 
proaches of sleep. While every word she had ut- 
tered, every feeling she expressed, but ministered new 
fuel to that flame which consumed me, and to de- 
scribe which, passion is far too weak a word, there 
was also much of her recital that disheartened and 
alarmed me. To find a Christian thus under the 
garb of a Memphian Priestess, was a discovery that, 
had my heart been less deeply interested, would but 


THE EPICUREAN. 


109 


have more powerfully stimulated my imagination 
and pride. But, when I recollected the austerity of 
the faith she had embraced, — the tender and sacred 
tie, associated with it in her memory, and the devo- 
tion of woman’s heart to objects thus consecrated, — 
her very perfections but widened the distance be- 
tween us, and all that most kindled my passion at 
the same time chilled my hopes. 

Were we to be left to each other, as on this silent 
river, in such undisturbed communion of thoughts 
and feelings, I knew too well, I thought, both her 
sex’s nature and my own, to feel a doubt that love 
would ultimately triumph. But the severity of the 
guardianship to which I must resign her, — that of 
some monk of the desert, some stern Solitary, — the 
influence such a monitor would gain over her mind, 
— and the horror with which he might, ere long, 
teach her to regard the reprobate infidel on whom 
she now smiled, — in all this prospect I saw nothing 
but despair. After a few short hours, my dream 
of happiness would be at an end, and such a dark 
chasm must then open between our fates, as would 
dissever them, wide as earth from heaven asunder. 

It was true, she was now wholly in my power. I 
feared no witnesses but those of earth, and the soli- 
tude of the desert was at hand. But though I ac- 
knowledged not a heaven, I worshipped her who 
was, to me, its type and substitute. If, at any mo- 
ment, a single thought of wrong or deceit, towards 
one so sacred arose in my mind, one look from her 
innocent eyes averted the' sacrilege. Even passion 
itself felt a holy fear in her presence, — like the flame 
trembling in the breeze of her sanctuary, — and Love, 
pure Love, stood in place of Religion. 

As long as I knew not her story, I could indulge, 
at least, in dreams of the future. But, now — what 
hope, what prospect remained ? My single chance 
of happiness lay in the hope, however delusive, of 
being able to divert her thoughts from the fatal pro- 
10 


110 


THE EPICUREAN. 


ject which she meditated ; of weaning her, by per 
suasion and argument, from that austere faith, which 
I had before hated and now feared, and of attaching 
her, perhaps, alone and unlinked as she was in the 
world, to my own fortunes for ever ! 

In the agitation of these thoughts, I had started 
from my resting-place, and Continued to pace up and 
down, under a burning sun, till, exhausted both by 
thought and feeling, I sunk down, amid that blaze of 
light, into a sleep, which to my fevered brain seemed 
a sleep of fire. 

On awaking, I found the veil of Alethe laid care- 
fully over my brow, while she, herself, sat near me, 
under the shadow of the sail, looking anxiously upon 
that leaf, which her mother had given her, and em- 
ployed apparently in comparing its outlines with the 
course of the river, as well as with the forms of the 
rocky hills by which we were passing. She looked 
pale and troubled, and rose eagerly to meet me, as 
if she had long and impatiently waited for my waking. 

Her heart, it was plain, had been disturbed from 
its security, and was beginning to tal^e alarm at its 
own feelings. But, though vaguely conscious of the 
peril to which she was exposed, her reliance, as is 
usual in such cases, increased with her danger, and 
upon me, far more than on herself, did she seem to 
depend for saving her. To reach, as soon as possible, 
her asylum in the desert,, was’ now the urgent object 
of her entreaties and wishes ; and the self-reproach 
which she expressed at having, for a single moment, 
suffered her thoughts to be diverted from this sacred 
purpose, not only revealed the truth, that she had for- 
gotten it, but betrayed even a glimmering conscious- 
ness of the cause ! 

Her sleep, she said, had been broken by ill-omened 
dreams. Every moment the shade of her mother 
had stood before her, rebuking, with mournful looks, 
her delay, and pointing, as she had done in death, to 
the eastern hills. Bursting into tears at this accusing 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Ill 


recollection, she hastily placed the leaf, which she had 
been examining, in my hands, and implored that I 
would ascertain, without a moments delay, what por- 
tion of the voyage was still unperformed, and in what 
space of time we might hope to accomplish it. 

I had, still less than herself, taken note of either 
place or distance ; and, could we have been left to 
glide on in this dream of happiness, should never have 
thought of pausing to ask where it would end. But 
such confidence, I felt, was far too sacred to be de- 
ceived. Reluctant as I naturally was, to enter on an 
inquiry, which might soon dissipate even my last 
hope, her wish was sufficient to supersede even the 
selfishness of love, and on the instant I proceeded to 
obey her will. 

There stands on the eastern bank of the Nile, to 
the north of Antinoe, a high and steep rock, impend- 
ing over the flood, which has borne, for ages, from a 
prodigy connected with it, the name of the Mountain 
of the Birds. Yearly, it is said, at a certain season 
and hour, large flocks of birds assemble in the ravine, 
of which thi^ rocky mountain forms one of the sides, 
and are there observed to go through the mysterious 
ceremony of inserting each its beak into a particular 
cleft of the rock, till the cleft closes upon one of their 
number, when all the rest of the birds take wing, and 
leave the selected victim to die. 

Through the ravine, rendered famous by this charm, 
— for such the multitude consider it, — there ran, in 
ancient times, a canal from the Nile, to some great 
and forgotten city, now buried in the desert. To a 
short distance from the river this canal still exists, 
but, after having passed through the defile, its scanty 
waters disappear, and are wholly lost under the sands. 

It was in the neighbourhood of this place, as I 
could collect from the delineations on the leaf, — 
where a flight of birds represented the name of the 
mountain, — that the abode of the Solitary, to whom 
Alethe was about to be consigned, was situated. 


112 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Little as I knew of the geography of Egypt, it at 
once struck me, that we had long since left this moun- 
tain behind and, on inquiring of our boatmen, I 
found my conjecture confirmed. We had, indeed, 
passed it, on the preceding night : and, as the wind 
had been, ever since, blowing strongly from the north, 
and the sun was already sinking towards the horizon, 
we must be now, at least, a day^s sail to the southward 
of the spot. 

This discovery, I confess, filled my heart with a 
feeling of joy which I found it difficult to conceal. It 
seemed as if fortune was conspiring with love in my 
behalf, and, by thus delaying the moment of our se- 
paration, afforded me a chance at least of happiness. 
Her look and manner, too, when informed of our mis- 
take, rather encouraged than chilled this secret hope. 
In the first moment of astonishment, her eyes opened 
upon me with a suddenness of splendour, under which 
I felt my own wink as though lightning had crossed 
them. But she again, as suddenly, let their lids fall, 
and, after a quiver of her lip, which showed the con- 
flict of feeling then going on within, crossed her arms 
upon her bosom, and looked down silently upon the 
deck ; her whole countenance sinking into an expres- 
sion, sad, but resigned, as if she now felt that fate 
was on the side of wJ-ong, and saw Love already 
stealing between her soul and heaven. 

I was not slow, of course, in availing myself of 
what I fancied to be the irresolution of her mind. But, 
still, fearful of exciting alarm by any appeal to feel- 
ings of regard or tenderness, I but addressed myself 
to her imagination, and to that love of novelty and 
wonders, which is ever ready to be awakened within 
the youthful breast. We were now approaching that 
region of miracles, Thebes. “ In a day or two,” said 
I, “ we shall see, towering above the waters, the co- 
lossal Avenue of Sphinxes, and the bright Obelisks of 
the Sun. We shall visit the plain of Memnon, and 
behold those mighty statues that fling their shadows 


THE EPICUREAN. 


113 


at sunrise over the Libyan hills.®® We shall hear the 
image of the Son of the Morning answering to the 
first touch of light. From thence, in a few hours, a 
breeze like this will transport us to those sunny islands 
near the cataracts ; there, to wander, among the sa- 
cred palm-groves of Philoe, or sit, at noon-tide hour, 
in those cool alcoves,* which the waterfall of Syene 
shadows under its arch. Oh, who is there that, with 
scenes of such loveliness within reach, would turn 
coldly away to the bleak desert, and leave this fair 
world, with all its enchantments, shining unseen and 
uhenjoyed ? At least,” — I added, taking tenderly her 
hand in mine, — “ let a few more days be stolen from 
the dreary fate to which thou hast devoted thyself, 
and then 

She had heard but the last few words ; — the rest 
had been lost upon her. Startled by the tone of ten- 
derness into which, in despite of all my resolves, I 
had suffered my voice to soften, she looked for an in- 
stant with passionate earnestness into my face ; — 
then, dropping upon her knees with her clasped 
hands upraised, exclaimed, — “ Tempt me not, in the 
name of God I implore thee, tempt me not to swerve 
from my sacred duty. Oh ! take me instantly to that 
desert mountain, and I will bless thee for ever.” 

This appeal, I felt, could not be resisted, — even 
though my heart were to break for it. Having si- 
lently intimated my assent to her prayer, by a slight 
pressure of her hand as I raised her from the deck, 
I proceeded immediately, as we were still in full ca- 
reer, for the south, to give orders that our sail should 
be instantly lowered, and not a moment lost in re- 
tracing our course. 

In giving these directions, however, it, for the first 
time, occurred to me, that, as I had hired this yacht 
m the neighbourhood of Memphis, where it was pro- 
bable the flight of the young Priestess would be most 


• Pant ttKM, 
10 * 


114 


THE EPICUREAN. 


vigilantly tracked, we should run the risk of betray- 
ing to the boatmen the place of her retreat ; — and 
there was now a most favourable opportunity for 
taking precautions against this danger. Desiring, 
therefore, that we should be landed at a small village 
on the shore, under pretence of paying a visit to some 
shrine in the neighbourhood, I there dismissed our 
barge, and was relieved from fear of further obser- 
vation, by seeing it again set sail, and resume its course 
fleetly up the current. 

From the boats of all descriptions that lay idle be- 
side the bank, I now selected one, in every respect, 
suited to my purpose, — being, in its shape and ac- 
commodations, a miniature of our former vessel, but, 
at the same time, so light and small as to be manage- 
able by myself alone, and requiring, with the advan- 
tage of the current, little more than a hand to steer 
it. This boat I succeeded, without much difficulty, 
in purchasing, and, after a short delay, we were again 
afloat down the current ; — the sun just then sinking, 
in conscious glory, over his own golden shrines in the 
Libyan waste. 

The evening was calmer and more lovely than any 
that had yet smiled upon our voyage ; and, as we left 
the shore, a strain of sweet melody came soothingly 
over our ears. It was the voice of a young Nubian 
girl, whom we saw kneeling before an acacia, upon 
the bank, and singing, while her companions stood 
around, the wild song of invocation, which, in her 
country, they address to that enchanted tree : — 

“ Oh ! Abyssinian tree, 

We pray, we pray to thee ; 

By the glow of thy golden fruit. 

And the violet hue of thy flower, 

And the greeting mute 
Of thy bough’s salute 
To the stranger who seeks thy bower.* 

* See an account of this sensitive tree, which bends down its 
branches to those who approach it, in M. Jomard’s Description of 
Sjene and the Cataracts. 


THE EPICUREAN. 115 

II. 

Oh ! Abyssinian tree, 

How the traveller blesses thee, 

When the night no moon allows, 

And the sunset hour is near, 

And thou bend’st thy boughs 
To kiss his brows, 

Saying, * Come rest thee here.* 

Oh ! Abyssinian tree. 

Thus bow thy head to me I’* 

In the burden of this song the companions of the 
young Nubian joined ; and we heard the words, 
“ Oh ! Abyssinian tree,” dying away on the breeze, 
long after the whole group had been lost to our eyes. 

Whether, in the new arrangement which I had 
made for our voyage, any motive, besides those which 
I professed, had a share, I can scarcely, even myself, 
— so bewildered were then my feelings, — determine. 
But no sooner had the current borne us away from 
all human dwellings, and we were alone on the wa- 
ters, with not a soul near, than I felt how closely 
such solitude draws hearts together, and how much 
more we seemed to belong to each other, than when 
there were eyes around us. 

The same feeling, but without the same sense of its 
danger, was manifest in every look and word of 
Alethe. The consciousness of the one great effort 
which she had made appeared to have satisfied her 
heart on the score of duty, — while the devotedness 
with which she saw I attended to her every wish, 
was felt with all that trusting gratitude which, in 
woman, is the day-spring of love. She was, there- 
fore, happy, innocently happy; and the confiding, 
and even affectionate, unreserve of her manner, 
while it rendered my trust more sacred, made it also 
far more difficult. 

It was only, however, upon subjects unconnected 
with our situation or fate, that she yielded to such 
interchange of thought, or that her voice ventured 
to answer mine. The moment I alluded to the des- 


116 


THE EPICUREAN. 


tiny that awaited us, all her cheerfulness fled, and 
she became saddened and silent. When 1 described 
to her the beauty of my own native land — its founts 
of inspiration and fields of glory — her eyes sparkled 
with sympathy, and sometimes even softened into 
fondness. But when I ventured to whisper, that, in 
that glorious country, a life full of love and liberty 
awaited her ; when I proceeded to contrast the ado- 
ration and bliss she might command, with the gloomy 
austerities of the life to which she was hastening, — 
it was like the coming of a sudden cloud over a sum- 
mer sky. Her head sunk, as she listened ; — I waited 
in vain for an answer ; and when half playfully re- 
proaching her for this silence, I stooped to take her 
hand, I could feel the warm tears fast falling over it. 

But even this — feeble as was the hope it held out 
— was still a glimpse of happiness. Though it fore- 
boded that 1 should lose her, it also whispered that I 
was loved. Like that lake, in the Land of Roses,* 
whose waters are half sweet, half bitter,f I felt my 
fate to be a compound of bliss and pain, — but its very 
pain well worth all ordinary bliss. 

And thus did the hours of that night pass along ; 
while every moment shortened our happy dream, 
and the current seemed to flow with a swifter pace 
than any that ever yet hurried to the sea. Not 
a feature of the whole scene but lives, at this mo- 
ment, freshly in my memory ; — the broken star-light 
on the water ; — the rippling sound of the boat, as, 
without oar or sail, it went, like a thing of enchant- 
ment, down the stream ; — the scented fire, burning 
beside us upon the deck, and, then, that face, on 
which its light fell, revealing, at every moment, some 
new charm, — some blush or look, more beautiful than 
the last ! 

Often, while I sat gazing, forgetful of all else, in 
this world, our boat, left wholly to itself, would drive 


* The province of Arsinoe, now Fioum* 


t Paul Lucas, 


THE EPICUREAN. 


117 


from its course, and, bearing us away to the bank, 
get entangled in the water-flowers, or be caught in 
some eddy, ere I perceived where we were. Once, 
too, when the rustling of my oar among the flowers 
had startled away from the bank some wild ante- 
lopes, that had stolen, at that still hour, to drink of 
the Nile, what an emblem did I think it of the young 
heart then beside me, — tasting, for the first time, of 
hope and love, and so soon, alas, to be scared from 
their sweetness for ever ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

The night was now far advanced ; — the bend of 
our course towards the left, and the closing in of the 
eastern hills upon the river, gave warning of our ap- 
proach to the hermif s dwelling. Every minute now 
appeared like the last of existence ; and I felt a sink- 
ing of despair at my heart, which would have been 
intolerable, had not a resolution that suddenly, and as 
if by inspiration, occurred to me, presented a glimpse 
of hope which, in some degree, calmed my feelings. 

Much as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy, — 
the very sect I had embraced being chiefly recom- 
mended to me by the war they continued to wage 
upon the cant of all others, — it was, nevertheless, in 
hypocrisy that I now scrupled not to take refuge from 
that calamity which to me was far worse than either 
shame or death, my separation from Alethe. In my 
despair, I adopted the humiliating plan — deeply hu- 
miliating as I felt it to be, even amid the joy with 
which 1 welcomed it — of offering myself to this her- 
mit, as a convert to his faith, and thus becoming the 
fellow-disciple of Alethe under his care ! 

From the moment I resolved upon this plan my 


118 


THE EPICUREAN. 


spirit felt lightened. Though having fully before my 
eyes ithe labyrinth of imposture into which it would 
lead me, I thought of nothing but the chance of our 
being still together. In this hope, all pride, all phi- 
losophy was forgotten, and every thing seemed tole- 
rable, but the prospect of losing her. 

Thus resolved, it was with somewhat less reluctant 
feelings, that I now undertook, at the anxious desire 
of my companion, to ascertain the site of that well- 
known mountain, in the neighbourhood of which the 
dwelling of the anchoret lay. We had already passed 
one or two stupendous rocks, which stood, detached, 
like fortresses, over the river’s brink, and which, in 
some degree, corresponded with the description on 
the leaf. So little was there of life now stirring 
along the shores, that I had begun almost to despair 
of any assistance from inquiry, when, on looking to 
the western bank, I saw a boatman among the sedges, 
towing his small boat, with some difficulty, up the 
current. Hailing him as we passed, I asked, — “ Where 
stands the Mountain of the Birds — and he had 
hardly time to answer, as he pointed above us, 
“ There,” when we perceived that we were just then 
entering into the shadow, which this mighty rock 
flings across the whole of the flood. 

In a few moments we had reached the mouth of 
the ravine, of which the Mountain of the Birds forms 
one of the sides, and through which the scanty canal 
from the Nile flows. At the sight of this awful 
chasm, within some of whose dreary recesses (if we 
had rightly interpreted the leaf) the dwelling of the 
Solitary was to be found, our voices sunk at once 
into a low whisper, while Alethe turned round to me 
with a look of awe and eagerness, as if doubtful 
whether I had not already disappeared from her side. 
A quick movement, however, of her hand towards 
the ravine, told too plainly that her purpose was still 
unchanged. Immediately checking, therefore, with 
my oars, the career of our boat, I succeeded, after 


THE EPICUREAN. 


119 


no small exertion, in turning it out of the current of 
the river, and steering into this bleak and stagnant 
canal. 

Our transition ffpm life and bloom to the very 
depth of desolation was immediate. While the wa- 
ter on one side of the ravine lay buried in shadow, 
the white skeleton- like crags of the other stood aloft 
in the pale glare of moonlight. The sluggish stream 
through which we moved yielded sullenly to the oar, 
and the shriek of a few water-birds, which we had 
roused from their fastnesses, was succeeded by a si- 
lence, so dead and awful, that our lips seemed afraid 
to disturb it by a breath ; and half- whispered excla- 
mations, “ How dreary !” — “ How dismal !” — were al- 
most the only words exchanged between us. 

We had proceeded for some time through this 
gloomy defile, when, at a short distance before us, 
among the rocks upon which the moonlight fell, we 
perceived, on a ledge but little elevated above the 
canal, a small hut or cave, which, from a tree or two 
planted around it, had some appearance of being the 
abode of a human being. “ This, then,” thought I, 
“is the home to which she is destined !” — A chill of 
despair came again over my heart, and the oars, as 
I sat gazing, lay motionless in my hands. 

I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the 
same object, drawing closer to my side than she had 
yet ventured. Laying her hand agitatedly upon 
mine, “ We must here,” said she, “ part for ever.” I 
turned to her, as she spoke ; there was a tenderness, 
a despondency in her countenance, that at once sad- 
dened and inflamed my soul. “ Part !” 1 exclaimed 
passionately, — “ No ! — the same God shall receive us 
both. Thy faith, Alethe, shall, from this hour, be 
mine, and I will live and die in this desert with thee !*’ 

Her surprise, her delight at these words, was like 
a momentary delirium. The wild, anxious smile, 
with which she looked into my face, as if to ascer- 
tain whether she had, indeed, heard my words aright; 


120 


THE EPICUREAN. 


bespoke a happiness too much for reason to bear 
At length the fulness of her heart found relief in 
tears ; and, murmuring forth an incoherent blessing 
on my name, she let her head fall languidly and pow- 
erlessly on my arm. The light from our boat-fire 
shone upon her face. I saw her eyes, which she had 
closed for a moment, again opening upon me with 
the same tenderness, and — merciful Providence, how 
I remember that moment ! — was on the point of 
bending down my lips towards hers, when, suddenly, 
in the air above us, as if it came direct from heaven, 
there burst forth a strain of choral music, that with 
its solemn sweetness filled the whole valley. 

Breaking away from my caress at these superna- 
tural sounds, the maiden threw herself trembling up- 
on her knees, and, not daring to look up, exclaimed 
wildly, “ My mother, oh my mother !” 

It was the Christian’s morning hymn that we 
heard ; — the same, as I learned afterwards, that, on 
their high terrace at Memphis, she had been taught 
by her mother to sing to the rising sun. 

Scarcely less startled than my companion, I look- 
ed up, and, at the very summit of the rock above us, 
saw a light, appearing to come from a small opening 
or window, through which the sounds also, that had 
appeared to me so supernatural, issued. There could 
be no doubt, that We had now found — if not the 
dwelling of the anchoret — at least, Jhe haunt of some 
of the Christian brotherhood of the rocks, by whose 
assistance we could not fail to find the place of his 
retreat. 

The agitation, into which Ale the had been thrown 
by the first burst of that psalmody, soon yielded to 
the softening recollections which it brought back ; 
and a calm came over her brow, such as it had never 
before worn, since we met. She seemed to feel that 
she had now reached her destined haven, and to hail, 
as the voice of heaven itself, those solemn sounds by 
which she was welcomed to it. 


THE EPICUREAN^ 


121 


In her tranquillity, however, I was very tar from 
yet sympathizing. Impatient to team all that awaits 
ed her as well as myself, I pushed our boat close to 
the base of the rock, so as to bring it directly under 
that lighted window on the summit, to find my way 
up to which was now my immediate object. Having 
hastily received my instructions from Alethe, and 
made her repeat again the name of the Christian 
whom we sought, 1 sprang upon the bank, and was 
not long in discovering a sort of path, or stairway, 
cut rudely out of the rock, and leading, as I found, 
by easy windings, up the steep. 

After ascending for some time, I arrived at a level 
space or ledge, which the hand of labour had suc- 
ceeded in converting into a garden, and which was 
planted, here and there, with fig-trees and palms.®^ 
Around it, too, I could perceive, through the glimmer- 
ing light, a number of small caves or grottos, into 
some of which, human beings might find an entrance ; 
while others appeared of no larger dimensions than 
those tombs of the Sacred Birds which are seen 
ranged around Lake Moeris. 

I was still, I found, but half-way up the ascent, 
nor could perceive any further means of continuing 
my course, as the mountain from hence rose, almost 
perpendicularly, like a wall. At length, however, 
on exploring around, I discovered behind the shade 
of a fig-tree a large ladder of wood, resting firmly 
against the rock, and affording an easy and safe as- 
cent up the steep. 

Having ascertained thus far, I again descended to 
the boat for Alethe, whom I found trembling already 
at her short solitude ; and having led her up the 
stairway to this quiet garden, left her lodged securely, 
amid its holy silence, while I pursued my way up- 
ward to the light on the rock. 

At the top of the long ladder I found myself on 
another ledge or platform, somewhat smaller than 
the first, but planted in the same manner, with trees, 
11 


122 


THE EPICUREAN. 


and, as I could perceive by the mingled light of morn- 
ing and the moon, embellished with flowers. I was 
now near the summit ; — there remained but another 
short ascent, and, as a ladder against the rock sup- 
plied, as before, the means of scaling it, I was in a few 
minutes at the opening from which the light issued. 

I had ascended gently, as well from a feeling of 
awe at the whole scene, as from an unwillingness to 
disturb rudely the rites on which I intruded. My 
approach, therefore, being unheard, an opportunity 
was, for some moments, aflbrded me of observing 
the group within, before my appearance at the win- 
dow was discovered. 

In the middle of the apartment, which seemed 
once to have been a Pagan oratory, there was col- 
lected an assembly of about seven or eight persons, 
some male, some female, kneeling in silence round a 
small altar; — while, among them, as if presiding over 
their ceremony, stood an aged man, who, at the mo- 
ment of my arrival, was presenting to one of the fe- 
male worshippers an alabaster cup, which she applied, 
with profound reverence, to her lips. The venerable 
countenance of the minister, as he pronounced a 
short prayer over her head, wore an expression of 
profound feeling that showed how wholly he was ab- 
sorbed in that rite ; and when she had drank of the 
Cup, — which I saw had engraven on its side the 
image of a head,^^ with a glory round it, — the holy 
man bent down and kissed her forehead.^^ 

After this parting salutation, the whole group rose 
silently from their knees ; and it was then, for the 
first time, that, by a cry of terror from one of the 
women, the appearance of a stranger at the window 
was discovered. The whole assembly seemed start- 
led and alarmed, except him, that superior person, 
who, advancing from the altar, with an unmoved 
look, raised the latch of the door adjoining to the 
window, and admitted me. 

There was, in this old man’s features, a mixture 


THE EPICUREAN. 


123 


of elevation and sweetness, of simplicity and energy, 
which commanded at once attachment and homage ; 
and half hoping, half fearing, to find in him the des- 
tined guardian of Alethe, I looked anxiously in his 
face, as I entered, and pronounced the name “ Mela- 
nius !” — “Melanius is my name, young stranger,” he 
answered ; “ and whether in friendship or enmity 
thou comest, Melanius blesses thee.” Thus saying, 
he made a sign with his right hand above my head, 
while, with involuntary respect, I bowed beneath 
the benediction. 

“ Let this volume,” I replied, “ answer for the 
peacefulness of my mission,” — at the same time, pla- 
cing in his hands the copy of the Scriptures which 
had been his own gift to the mother of Alethe, and 
which her child now brought as the credential of her 
claims onjiis protection. At the sight of this sacred 
pledge, which he recognised instantly, the solemnity 
that had at first marked his reception of me softened 
into tenderness. Thoughts of other times appeared 
to pass through his mind ; and as, with a sigh of re- 
collection, he took the book from my hands, some 
words on the outer leaf caught his eye. They were 
few, — but contained, most probably, the last wishes 
of the dying Theora; for as he read them over 
eagerly, I saw tears in his aged eyes. “ The trust,” 
^ he said, with a faltering voice, “ is precious and sa- 
cred, and God will enable, I hope, his servant to 
guard it faithfully.” 

During this short dialogue, the other persons of the 
assembly had departed, — being, as I afterwards 
learned, brethren from the neighbouring bank of the 
Nile, who came thus secretly before daybreak, to 
join in worshipping their God.^^ Fearful lest their 
descent down the rock might alarm Alethe, I hurried 
briefly over the few words of explanation that re- 
mained, and leaving the venerable Christian to follow 
at his leisure, hastened anxiously down to rejoin the 
young maiden. 


124 


THE EPICUREAN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Melanius was one of the first of those zealous 
Christians of Egypt, who, following tbe recent ex- , 
ample of the hermit, Paul, bade farewell to all the 
comforts of social existence, and betook themselves 
to a life of contemplation in the desert. Less selfish, 
however, in his piety, than most of these ascetics, 
Melanius forgot not the world, in leaving it. He 
knew that man was not born to live wholly for him- 
self ; that his relation to human kind was that of the 
link to the chain, and that even his solitude should 
be turned to the advantage of others. In flying, 
therefore, from the din and disturbance ^f life, he 
sought not to place himself beyond the reach of its 
sympathies, but selected a retreat where he could 
combine the advantage of solitude with those oppor- 
tunities of being useful to his fellow-men, which a 
neighbourhood to their populous haunts would afford. 

That taste for the gloom of subterranean recesses, 
which the race of Misrairn inherit from their Ethio- 
pian ancestors, had, by hollowing out all Egypt into 
caverns and crypts, supplied these Christian ancho- 
rets with an ample choice of retreats. Accordingly, , 
some found a shelter in the grottos of Elethya ; — 
others, among the royal tombs of the Thebaid. In 
the middle of the Seven Valley s,^^ where the sur 
rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim and melan 
choly retreat ; while others have sought the neigh- 
bourhood of the red Lakes of Nitria,®® and there, like 
those Pagan solitaries of old, who fixed their dwelling 
among the palm-trees near the Dead Sea, pass their 
whole lives in musing amidst the sterility of nature, 
and seem to find, in her desolation, peace. 

It was on one of the mountains of the Said, to the 
east of the river, that Melanius, as we have seen, 


THE EPICUREAN. 


125 


chose his place of seclusion, — having all the life and 
fertility of the Nile on one side, and the lone, dismal 
barrenness of the desert on the other. Half-way 
down this mountain, where it impends over the ra- 
vine, he found a series of caves or grottos dug out of 
the rock, which had, in other times, ministered to 
some purpose of mystery, but whose use had long 
been forgotten, and their recesses abandoned. 

To this place, after the banishment of his great 
master, Origen, Melanius, with a few faithful follow- 
ers, retired, and there, by the example of his innocent 
life, as well as by his fervid eloquence, succeeded in 
winning crowds of converts to his faith. Placed, as 
he was, in the neighbourhood of the rich city, Anti- 
noe,®”^ though he mingled not with its multitude, his 
name and his fame were ever among them, and, to 
all who sought after instruction or consolation, the 
cell of the hermit was always open. 

Notwithstanding the rigid abstinence of his own 
habits, he was yet careful to provide for the com- 
forts of others. Content with a rude pallet of straw, 
himself, he had always for the stranger a less homely 
resting-place. From his grotto, the wayfaring and 
the indigent never went unrefreshed; and, with the 
aid of some of his brethren, he had formed gardens 
along the ledges of the mountain, which gave an air 
of life and cheerfulness to his rocky dwelling, and 
supplied him with the chief necessaries of such a 
climate, — fruit and shade. 

Though the acquaintance he had formed with the 
mother of Alethe, during the short period of her at- 
tendance at the school of Origen, was soon inter- 
rupted, and never afterwards renewed, the interest 
which he had then taken in her fate was far too lively 
to be forgotten. He had seen the zeal with which 
her young heart welcomed instruction ; and the 
thought that so promising a candidate for heaven 
should have relapsed into idolatry, came often, with 
disquieting apprehension, over his mind. 

11 # 


126 


THE EPICUREAN. 


It was, therefore, with true pleasure, that, but a 
year or two before Theora’s death, he had learned 
by a private communication from her, transmitted 
through a Christian embalmer of Memphis, that “not 
only had her own heart taken root in the faith, but 
that a new bud had flowered with the same divine 
hope, and that, ere long, he might see them both 
transplanted to the desert.” 

The coming, therefore, of Alethe was far less a 
surprise to him, than her coming thus alone was a 
shock and a sorrow ; and the silence of their first 
meeting showed how painfully both remembered that 
the tie which had brought them together was no 
longer of this world, — that the hand, which should 
have been then joined with theirs, was mouldering in 
the tomb. I now saw that not even religion was 
proof against the sadness of mortality. For, as the 
old man put the ringlets aside from her forehead, and 
contemplated in that clear countenance the reflec- 
tion of what her mother had been, there was a 
mournfulness mingled with his piety, as he said, 
“ Heaven rest her soul !” which showed how little 
even the certainty of a heaven for those we love can 
reconcile us to the pain of having lost them on earth. 

The full light of day had now risen upon the de- 
sert, and our host, reminded, by the faint looks of 
Alethe, of the many anxious hours we had passed 
without sleep, proposed that we should seek, in the 
chambers of the rock, such rest as a hermit’s dwell- 
ing could offer. Pointing to one of the largest of 
these openings, as he addressed me, — “ Thou wilt 
find,” he said, “in that grotto a bed of fresh doum 
leaves, and may the consciousness of having pro- 
tected the orphan sweeten thy sleep !” 

I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and 
already almost repented of having deserved it. There 
was a sadness in the countenance of Alethe, as I took 
leave of her, to which the forebodings of my own 
heart but too faithfully responded ; nor could I help 


THE EPICUREAN. 


127 


fearing, as her hand parted lingeringly from mine, 
that I had, by this sacrifice, placed her beyond my 
reach for ever. 

Having lighted for me a lamp, which, in these reces- 
ses, even at noon, is necessary, the holy man led me to 
the entrance of the grotto. And here, I blush to say, my 
career of hypocrisy began. With the sole view of ob- 
taining another glance at Alethe,! turned humbly to so- 
licit the benediction of the Christian, and, having con- 
veyed to her, while bending reverently down, as much 
of the deep feeling of my soul as looks could express, I 
then, with a desponding spirit, hurried into the cavern. 

A short passage led me to the chamber within, — > 
the walls of which I found covered, like those of the 
grottos of Lycopolis, with paintings, which, though 
executed long ages ago, looked as fresh as if their 
colours were but laid on yesterday. They were, all 
of them, re presentations of rural and domestic scenes; 
and, in the greater number, the melancholy imagina- 
tion of the artist had called in, as usual, the presence 
of Death, to throw his shadow over the picture. 

My attention was particularly drawn to one series 
of subjects, throughout the whole of which the same 
group — consisting of a youth, a maiden, and two aged 
persons, who appeared to be the father and mother 
of the girl, — were represented in all the details of 
their daily life. The looks and attitudes of the young 
people denoted that they were lovers ; and, some- 
times, they were seen sitting under a canopy of flow- 
ers, with their eyes fixed on each other’s faces, as 
though they could never look away ; sometimes, they 
appeared walking along the banks of the Nile, 

on one of those sweet nights 

When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights* 

Her bridal crescent o’er the holy stream, — 

When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam, 

And number o’er the nights she hath to run, 

Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun.98 


* V. Plutarch de Isid» 


128 


THE EPICUREAN. 


Through all these scenes of endearment the two 
elder persons stood by ; their calm countenances 
touched with a share of that bliss, in whose perfect 
light the young lovers were basking. Thus far, all 
was happiness ; — but the sad lesson of mortality was 
yet to come. In the last picture of the series, one of 
the figures was missing. It was that of the young 
maiden, who had disappeared from among them. On 
the brink of a dark lake stood the three who remain- 
ed ; while a boat, just departing for the City of the 
Dead, told too plainly the end of their dream of hap- 
piness. 

This memorial of a sorrow of other times — of a 
sorrow, ancient as death itself, — was not wanting to 
deepen the melancholy of my mind, or to add to the 
weight of the many bodings that pressed upon it. 

After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleep- 
ing thought, I rose from my bed and returned to the 
garden. I found the Christian alone, seated, under 
the shade of one of his trees, at a small table, with a 
volume unrolled before him, while a beautiful ante- 
lope lay sleeping at his feet. Struck forcibly by the 
contrast which he presented to those haughty priests, 
whom I had seen surrounded by the pomp and gorge- 
ousness of temples, “ Is this, then,” thought I, “ the 
faith before which the world now trembles — its tem- 
ple the desert, its treasury a book, and its High Priest 
the solitary dweller of the rock ?” 

He had prepared for me a simple, but hospitable 
repast, of which fruits from his own garden, the white 
bread of Olyra, and the juice of the honey-cane, were 
the most costly luxuries. His manner to me was 
even more cordial and fatherly than before ; but the 
absence of Alethe, and, still more, the ominous re- 
serve, with which he not only, himself, refrained 
from all mention of her name, but eluded the few in- 
quiries, by which I sought to lead to it, seemed to 
confirm all the apprehensions I had felt in parting 
from her. 


THE E PI CUREAN. 


129 


She had acquainted him, it was evident, with the 
whole history of our flight. My reputation as a phi- 
losopher — my desire to become a Christian — all was 
already known to the zealous Anchoret, and the sub- 
ject of my conversion was the very first on which 
he entered. Oh, pride of philosophy, how wert thou 
then humbled, and with what shame did I stand in 
the presence of the venerable man, not daring to let 
my eyes meet his, while, with ingenuous trust in the 
sincerity of my intention, he welcomed me to a par- 
ticipation of his holy hope, and imprinted the Kiss of 
Charity on my infidel brow ! 

Embarrassed as I could not but feel by the humili- 
ating consciousness of hypocrisy, I was even still 
more perplexed by my almost total ignorance of the 
real tenets of the faith to which I professed myself a 
convert. Abashed and confused, and with a heart 
sick at its own deceit, I listened to the animated and 
eloquent gratulations of the Christian, as though they 
were words in a dream, without any link or meaning ; 
nor could disguise but by the mockery of a reverent 
bow, at every pause, the total want of self-possession, 
and even of speech, under which I laboured. 

A few minutes more of such trial, and I must have 
avowed my imposture. But the holy man saw my 
embarrassment ; — and, whether mistaking it for awe, 
or knowing it to be ignorance, relieved me from my 
perplexity by, at once, changing the theme. Having 
gently awakened his antelope from its sleep, “ You 
have doubtless,” he said, “ heard of my brother- an- 
choret, Paul, who, from his cave in the marble moun- 
tains, near the Red Sea, sends hourly the blessed 
‘ sacrifice of thanksgiving’ to heaven. Of his walks, 
they tell me, a lion is the companion but, for me,” 
he added with a playful and significant smile, “ who 
try my powers of taming but on the gentler animals, 
this feeble child of the desert is a far fitter playmate.” 
Then, taking his staff, and putting the time-worn vo- 
lume which he had been perusing into a large goat- 


130 


THE EP ICURE AN. 


skin pouch, that hung by his side, “ I will now,” said 
he, “ conduct thee over my rocky kingdom, — that 
thou mayest see in what drear and barren places 
that ‘ sweet fruit of the spirit,’ Peace may be ga- 
thered.” 

To speak of peace to a heart throbbing, as mine 
did, at that moment, was like talking of some distant 
harbour to the mariner sinking at sea. In vain did I 
look around for some sign of Alethe ; — in vain make 
an effort even to utter her name. Consciousness of 
my own deceit, as well as a fear of awakening in the 
mind of Melanius any suspicion that might tend to 
frustrate my only hope, threw a fetter over my spirit 
and checked my tongue. In humble silence, there- 
fore, I followed, while the cheerful old man, with 
slow, but firm, step, ascended the rock, by the same 
ladders which I had mounted on the preceding 
night. 

During the time when the Decian Persecution was 
raging, many Christians, as he told me, of the neigh- 
bourhood had taken refuge under his protection, in 
these grottos ; and the small chapel upon the summit, 
where I had found his flock at prayer, was, in those 
awful times of suffering, their usual place of retreat, 
where, by drawing up these ladders, they were ena- 
bled to secure themselves from pursuit. 

From the top of the rock, the view, on either side, 
embraced the two extremes of fertility and desola- 
tion ; nor could the Epicurean and the Anchoret, who 
now stood gazing from that height, be at any loss to 
indulge their respective tastes, between the living 
luxuriance of the world on one side, and the dead, 
pulseless repose of the desert on the other. When 
we turned to the river, what a picture of animation 
presented itself! Near us to the south, were the 
graceful colonnades of Antinoe, its proud, populous 
streets, and triumphal monuments. On the opposite 
shore, rich plains, teeming with cultivation to the wa- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


131 


ter’s edge, offered up, as from verdant altars, their 
fruits to the sun ; while, beneath us, the Nile, 

the glorious stream, 

That late between its banks was seen to glide, — 

With shrines and marble cities, on each side. 

Glittering, like jewels strung along a chain, — 

Had now sent forth its waters, and o’er plain 
And valley, like a giant from his bed 
Rising with outstretch’d limbs, superbly spread. 

From this scene, on one side of the mountain, we had 
but to turn round our eyes to the other, and it was as 
if Nature herself had become suddenly extinct ; — a 
wide waste of sands, bleak and interminable, weary- 
ing out the sun with its sameness of desolation ; — 
black, burnt-up rocks, that stood as barriers, at which 
life stopped ; — while the only signs of animation, past 
or present, were the foot-prints, here and there, of an 
antelope or ostrich, or the bones of dead camels, as 
they lay whitening at a distance, marking out the 
track of the caravans over the waste. 

After listening, while he contrasted, in a few elo- 
quent words, the two regions of life and death on 
whose confines we stood, I again descended with 
my guide to the garden we had left. From thence, 
turning into a path along the mountain-side, he con- 
ducted me to another row of grottos, facing the de- 
sert, which had once, he said, been the abode of those 
brethren in Christ, who had fled with him to this so- 
litude from the crowded world, — but which death 
had, within a few short months, rendered tenantless. 
A cross of red stone, and a few faded trees, were the 
only traces these solitaries had left behind. 

A silence of some minutes succeeded, while we 
descended to the edge of the canal ; and I saw oppo- 
site, among the rocks, that solitary cave, which had 
so chilled me with its aspect on the preceding night. 
Beside the bank we found one of those rustic boats, 
which the Egyptians construct of planks of wild 
thorn, bound rudely together with bands of papyrus. 
Placing ourselves in this boat, and rather impelling 


132 


THE EPICU RE AN. 


than rowing it across, we made our way through the 
foul and shallow flood, and landed directly under the 
site of the cave. 

This dwelling, as I have already mentioned, was 
situated on a ledge of the rock ; and, being provided 
with a scrt of window or aperture to admit the light 
of heaven, was accounted, I found, more cheerful 
than the grottos on the other side of the ravine. 
But there was a . dreariness in the whole region 
around, to which light only lent additional horror. 
The dead whiteness of the rocks, as they stood, like 
ghosts, in the sunshine ; — that melancholy pool, half 
lost in the sands; — all gave to my mind the idea of a 
wasting world. To dwell in such a place seemed to 
me like a living death; and when the Christian, as 
we entered the cave, said, “ Here is to be thy home,” 
prepared as I had been for the worst, my resolution 
gave way ; — every feeling of disappointed passion 
and humbled pride, which had been gathering round 
my heart for the few last hours, found a vent at 
once, and I burst into tears. 

Accustomed to human weakness, and perhaps 
guessing at some of the sources of mine, the good 
Hermit, without appearing to take any notice of this 
emotion, proceeded to expatiate, with a cheerful air, 
on, what he called, the comforts of my dwelling. 
Sheltered from the dry, burning wind of the south, 
my porch would inhale, he said, the fresh breeze of 
the Dog-star. Fruits from his own mountain-garden 
should furnish my repast. The well of the neigh- 
bouring rock would supply my beverage ; and “ here,” 
he continued, — lowering his voice into a more so- 
lemn tone, as he placed upon the table the volume 
which he had brought, — “ here, my son, is that 
‘ well of living waters,’ in w^hich alone thou wilt find 
lasting refreshment or peace !” Thus saying, he de- 
scended the rock to his boat, and after a few plashes 
of his oar had died upon my ear, the solitude and si- 
lence that reigned around me was complete. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


133 


CHAPTER XVIL 

What a fate was mine ! — ^but a few weeks since, 
presiding over that gay Festival of the Garden, with 
all the luxuries of existence tributary in iny train ; 
and now, — self- humbled into a solitary outcast, — the 
hypocritical pupil of a Christian anchoret, — without 
even the excuse of religious fanaticism, or any other 
madness, but that of love, wild love, to extenuate 
my fall ! Were there a hope that, by this humiliat- 
ing waste of existence, I might purchase now and 
then a momentary glimpse of Alethe, even the depths 
of the desert, with such a chance, would be welcome. 
But to live — and live thus — without her, was a misery 
which I neither foresaw nor could endure. 

Hating even to look upon the den to which I was 
doomed, I hurried out into the air, and found my 
way, among the rocks, to the desert. The sun was 
going down, with that blood-red hue, which he so 
frequently wears, in this climate, at his setting. I 
saw the sands, stretching out, like a sea to the hori- 
zon, as if their waste extended to the very verge of 
the world, — and, in the bitterness of my feelings, re- 
joiced to see so large a portion of creation rescued, 
even by this barren liberty, from the encroaching 
grasp of man. The thought seemed to relieve my 
wounded pride, and, as I wandered over the dim and 
boundless solitude, to be thus free, even amidst blight 
and desolation, appeared to me a blessing. 

The only living thing I saw was a restless swal- 
low,^^ whose wings were of the hue of the gray 
sands over which he fluttered. “ Why (thought I) 
may not the mind, like this bird, partake of the co- 
lour of the desert, and sympathize in its austerity, its 
freedom, and its calm ?” — thus vainly endeavouring 
12 


134 


THE EPICUREAN. 


between despondence and defiance, to encounter 
with some degree of fortitude what yet my heart 
sickened to contemplate. But the effort was unavail- 
ing. Overcome by that vast solitude, whose repose 
was not the slumber of peace, but rather the sullen 
and burning silence of hate, I felt my spirit give way, 
and even love itself yielded to despair. 

Seating myself on a fragment of a l ock, and cover- 
ing my eyes with my hands, I made an effort to shut 
out the overwhelming prospect. But all in vain — it 
was still before me, with every additional horror 
that fancy could suggest ; and when, again looking 
forth, I saw the last red ray of the sun, shooting 
across the melancholy and lifeless waste, it appeared 
to me like the light of that comet which once deso- 
lated this world, and thus luridly shone out over the 
ruin that it had made 

Appalled by my own gloomy imaginations, I turn- 
ed towards the ravine ; and, notwithstanding the dis- 
gust with which I had fled from my dwelling, was 
not ill pleased to find my way, over the rocks, to it 
again. On approaching the cave, to my astonish- 
ment, I saw a light within. At such a moment, any 
vestige of life was welcome, and I hailed the unex- 
pected appearance with pleasure. On entering, how- 
ever, I found the chamber all as lonely as 1 had left 
it. The light I had seen came from a lamp that 
burned brightly on the table ; beside it was unfolded 
the volume which Melanius had brought, and upon 
the open leaves — oh, joy and surprise — lay the well- 
known cross of Alethe ! 

What hand, but her own, could have prepared 
this reception for me? — The very thought sent a 
hope into my heart, before which all despondency 
fled. Even the gloom of the desert was forgotten, 
and my rude cave at once brightened into a bower. 
{She had here reminded me, by this sacred memorial, 
of the vow which I had pledged to her under the 
Hermit’s rock ; and I now scrupled not to reiterate 


THE EPICUREAN. 


135 


the same daring promise, though conscious that 
through hypocrisy alone could I fulfil it. 

Eager to prepare myself for my task of imposture, 
I sat down to the volume, which I now found to be 
the Hebrew Scriptures ; and the first sentence, on 
which my eyes fell, was — “ The Lord hath command- 
ed the blessing, even Life for evermore !” Startled 
by those words, in which it appeared to me as if the 
Spirit of my dream had again pronounced his assur- 
ing prediction, I raised my eyes from the page, and 
repeated the sentence over and over, as if to try 
whether the sounds had any charm or spell, to re- 
awaken that faded illusion in my soul.^^ But, no — 
the rank frauds of the Memphian priesthood had dis- 
pelled all. my trust in the promises of religion. My 
heart had again relapsed into its gloom of scepticism, 
and, to the word of “ Life,” the only answer it sent 
back was, “ Death 1” 

Impatient, however, to possess myself of the ele- 
ments of a faith, upon which — whatever it might 
promise for hereafter — I felt that all my happiness 
here depended, I turned over the pages with an 
earnestness and avidity, such as never even the most 
favourite of my studies had awakened in me. Though, 
like all who seek but the surface of learning, I flew 
desultorily over the leaves, lighting only on the more 
prominent and shining points, I yet found myself, 
even in this undisciplined career, arrested, at every 
page, by the awful, the supernatural sublimity, the 
alternate melancholy and grandeur of the images that 
crowded upon me. 

I had, till now, known the Hebrew theology but 
through the platonising refinement of Philo ; — as, in 
like manner, for my knowledge of the Christian doc- 
trine I was indebted to my brother Epicureans, Lu- 
cian and Celsus. Little, therefore, was my mind 
prepared for the simple majesty, the high tone of in- 
spiration, — the poetry, in short, of heaven, that 
breathed throughout these oracles. Could admifa- 


136 


THE EPICUREAN. 


tion have kindled faith, I should, that night, have 
been a believer ; so elevated, so awed was my ima- 
gination by that wonderful book, — its warnings of 
woe, its announcements of glory, and its unrivalled 
strains of adoration and sorrow. 

Hour after hour, with the same eager and desultory 
curiosity, did I turn over the leaves ; — and when, at 
length, I lay down to rest, my fancy was still haunted 
by the impressions it had received. I went again 
through the various scenes of which I had read ; 
again called up, in sleep, the bright images that had 
passed before me, and, when awakened at dawn by 
the solemn Hymn from the chapel, imagined that I 
was still listening to the sound of the winds, sighing 
mournfully through the harps of Israel on the wil- 
lows. 

Starting from my bed, I hurried out upon the rock, 
with a hope that, among the tones of that morning 
choir, I might be able to distinguish the sweet voice 
of Alethe. But the strain had ceased ; — I caught 
only the last notes of the Hymn, as, echoing up that 
lonely valley, they died away in the silence of the 
desert. 

With the first glimpse of light I was again eagerly 
at my study, and, notwithstanding the frequent dis- 
traction both of my thoughts and looks towards the 
distant, half-seen grottos of the Anchoret, continued 
my task with unabating perseverance through the 
day. Still alive, however, but to the eloquence, the 
poetry of what I read, of its claims to authority, as a 
history, I never paused to consider. My fancy alone 
being interested by it, to fancy I referred all that it 
contained ; and, passing rapidly from annals to pro- 
phecy, from narration to song, regarded the whole 
but as a tissue of oriental allegories, in which the 
deep melancholy of Egyptian associations was inter- 
woven with the rich and sensual imagery of the 
East. 

Towards sunset I saw the venerable Hermit, on 


THE EPICUREAN. 


137 


his way, across the canal, to my cave. Though he 
was accompanied only by his graceful antelope, which 
came snuffing the wild air of the desert, as if scenting 
its home, 1 felt his visit, even thus, to be a most wel- 
come relief. It was the hour, he said, of his evening 
ramble up the mountain, — of his accustomed visit to 
those cisterns of the rock, from which he nightly 
drew his most precious beverage. While he spoke, 
I observed in his hand one of those earthen cups, in 
which it is the custom of the inhabitants of the wil- 
derness to collect the fresh dew among the rocks.^^^ 
Having proposed that I should accompany him in his 
walk, he proceeded to lead me, in the direction of the 
desert, up the side of the mountain that rose above 
my dwelling, and which formed the southern wall or 
screen of the defile. 

Near the summit we found a seat, where the old 
man paused to rest. It commanded a full view over 
the desert, and was by the side of one of those hol- 
lows in the rock, those natural reservoirs, in which 
are treasured the dews of night for the refreshment 
of the dwellers in the wilderness. Having learned 
from me how far I had advanced in my study, — “ In 
yonder light,” said he, pointing to a small cloud in the 
east, which had been formed on the horizon by the 
haze of the desert, and was now faintly reflecting the 
splendours of sunset, — “ in the midst of that light 
stands Mount Sinai, of whose glory thou hast read ; 
upon whose summit was the scene of one of those 
awful revelations, in which the Almighty has re- 
newed from time to time, his communication with 
Man, and kept alive the remembrance of his own 
Providence in this world.” 

After a pause, as if absorbed in the immensity of 
the subject, the holy man continued his sublime theme. 
Looking back to the earliest annals of time, he showed 
how constantly every relapse of the human race into 
idolatry had been followed by some manifestation of 
divine power, chastening the strong and proud by 
12 * 


138 


THE EPICUREAN. 


punishment, and winning back the humble by love. 
It was to preserve, he said, unextinguished upon 
earth, that great and vital truth, — the Creation of the 
world by one Supreme Being, — that God chose, from 
among the nations, an humble and enslaved race, — 
that he brought them out of their captivity “ on 
eagles’ wings,” and, surrounding every step of their 
course with miracles, has placed them before the 
eyes of all succeeding generations, as the depositaries 
of his will, and the ever- during memorials of his 
powerJ®^ 

Passing, then, in review the long train of inspired 
interpreters, whose pens and whose tongues were 
made the echoes of the Divine voice, he traced,* 
throughout the events of successive ages, the gradual 
unfolding of the dark scheme of Providence — dark- 
ness without, but all light and glory within. The 
glimpses of a coming redemption, visible even through 
the wrath of Heaven ; — the long series of prophecy 
through which this hope runs, burning and alive, like 
a spark along a chain ; — the slow and merciful pre- 
paration of the hearts of mankind for the great trial 
of their faith and obedience that was at hand, not 
only by miracles that appealed to the living, but by 
prophecies launched into the future to carry con- 
viction to the yet unborn ; — “ through all these glo- 
rious and beneficent gradations we may track,” said 
he, “ the manifest footsteps of a Creator, advancing 
to his grand, ultimate end, the salvation of his crea- 
tures.” 

After some hours devoted to these holy instruc- 
tions, we returned to the ravine, and Melanius left 
me at my cave ; praying, as he parted from me, — 
with a benevolence which I but ill, alas ! deserved, — 
that my soul might, under these lessons, be “ as a 
watered garden,” and, ere long, “ bear fruit unto life 
eternal.” 

* In the original, the discourses of the Hermit are given much 
more at length. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


139 


Next morning, I was again at my study, and even 
more eager in the awakening task than before. With 
the commentary of the Hermit freshly in my memory, 
I again read through, with attention, the Book of the 
Law. But in vain did I seek the promise of immor- 
tality in its pages. “ It tells me,” said I, “ of a God 
coming down to earth, but of the ascent of Man to 
heaven it speaks not. The rewards, the punishments 
it announces, lie all on this side of the grave ; nor 
did even the Omnipotent offer to his own chosen ser- 
vants a hope beyond the impassable limits of this 
world. Where, then, is the salvation of which the 
Christian spoke ? or, if Death be at the root of the 
faith, can Life spring out of it ?” 

Again, in the bitterness of disappointment, did I 
mock at my own willing self-delusion, — again rail at 
the arts of that traitress. Fancy, ever ready, like the 
Delilah of this wondrous book, to steal upon the 
slumbers of Reason, and deliver him up, shorn and 
powerless, to his foes. If deception — thought I, with 
a sigh — be necessary, at least let me not practise it 
on myself ; — in the desperate alternative before me, 
let me rather be even hypocrite than dupe. 

These self-accusing reflections, cheerless as they 
rendered my task, did not abate, for a single moment, 
my industry in pursuing it. I read on and on, with 
a sort of sullen apathy, neither charmed by style, nor 
transported by imagery, — that fatal blight in my 
heart having communicated itself to my imagination 
and taste. The curses and the blessings, the glory 
and the ruin, which the historian recorded and the 
prophet had predicted, seemed all of this world, — all 
temporal and earthly. That mortality, of which the 
fountain-head had tasted, tinged the whole stream ; 
and when I read the words, “ all are of the dust, and 
all turn to dust again,” a feeling, like the wind of the 
desert came witheringly over me.^®® Love, Beauty, 
Glory, every thing most bright and worshipped upon 
earth, appeared sinking before my eyes, under this 


140 


THE EPICUREAN. 


dreadful doom, into one general mass of corruption 
and silence. 

Possessed by the image of desolation I had thus 
called up, 1 laid my head upon the book, in a parox- 
ysm of despair. Death, in all his most ghastly va- 
rieties, passed before me ; and I had continued thus 
for some time, as under the influence of a fearful 
vision, Avhen the touch of a hand upon my shoulder 
roused me. Looking up, I the Anchoret stand- 
ing by my side ; — bis countenance beaming with 
that sublime tranquillity, which a hope, beyond this 
earth, can alone bestow. How I did envy him ! 

We again took our way to the seat upon the moun- 
tain, — the gloom within my own mind making every 
thing around me more gloomy. Forgetting my hy- 
pocrisy in my feelings, I proceeded to make, at once, 
an avowal to him of all the doubts and fears which 
my study of the morning had awakened. 

“ Thou art yet, my son,” he answered, “ but on the 
threshold of our faith. Thou hast seen but the first 
rudiments of the Divine plan ; — its full and consum- 
mate perfection hath not yet opened upon thy mind. 
However glorious that manifestation of Divinity on 
Mount Sinai, it was but the forerunner of another, 
still more glorious, which, in the fulness of time, was 
to burst upon the world ; when all, that had seemed 
dim and incomplete, was to be perfected, and the 
promises shadowed out by the ‘spirit of prophecy,^ 
realized ; — when the silence, that lay, as a seal, on 
the future, was to be broken, and the glad tidings of 
life and immortality proclaimed to the world !” 

Observing my features brighten at these words, 
the pious man continued. Anticipating some of the 
holy knowledge that was in store for me, he traced, 
through all its wonders and mercies, the great work 
of Redemption, dwelling in detail upon every mira- 
culous circumstance connected with it, — the exalted 
nature of the Being, by whose ministry it was ac- 
complished, the noblest and first created of the Sons 


THE EPICUREAN. 


141 


of God, inferior only, to the one, self-existent Fa- 
ther; — the mysterious incarnation of this heavenly 
messenger ; — the miracles that authenticated his di- 
vine mission ; the example of obedience to God and 
love to man, which he set, as a shining light, before 
the world for ever; — and, lastly and chiefly, his 
death and resurrection, by which the covenant of 
mercy was sealed, and “life and immortality brought 
to light.”i«7 

“ Such,” continued the Hermit, “ was the Media- 
tor, promised through all time, to ‘ make reconcilia- 
tion for iniquity,’ to change death into life, and bring 
* healing on his wings’ to a darkened world. Such 
was the last crowning dispensation of that God of 
benevolence, in whose hands sin and death are but 
instruments of everlasting good, and who, through 
apparent evil and temporary retribution, bringing all 
things ‘ out of darkness into his marvellous light,’ pro- 
ceeds watchfully and unchangingly to the great, final 
object of his providence, the restoration of the 
whole human race to purity and happiness 

With a mind astonished, if not touched, by these 
discourses, I returned to my cave, and found the 
lamp, as before, ready lighted to receive me. The 
volume which I had been hitherto studying, was re- 
placed by another, which lay open upon the table, 
with a branch of fresh palm between its leaves. 
Though I could not doubt to whose gentle and guar- 
dian hand I was indebted for this invisible watchful- 
ness over my studies, there was yet a something in 
it, so like spiritual interposition, that it struck me 
with awe ; — and never more than at this moment, 
when, on approaching the volume, I saw, as the light 
glistened over its silver letters, that it was the very 
Book of Life of which the Hermit had spoken 

The midnight hymn of the Christians had sounded 
through the valley, before I had yet raised my eyes 
from that sacred volume ; and the second hour of 
the sun found me again over its pages. 


142 


THE EPICUREAN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

In this mode of existence I had now passed some 
days ; — my mornings devoted to reading, my nights 
to listening, under the wide canopy of heaven, to the 
holy eloquence of Melanius. The perseverance with 
which I inquired, and the quickness with which I 
learned, soon succeeded in deceiving my benevolent 
instructor, who mistook curiosity for zeal, and know- 
ledge for belief. Alas ! cold, and barren, and earthly 
was that knowledge, — the word without the spirit, 
the shape without the life. Even when, as a relief 
from hypocrisy, I persuaded myself that I believed, 
it was but a brief delusion, a faith, whose hope 
crumbled at the touch, — ^like the fruit of the desert- 
shrub, shining and empty !* 

But, though my soul was still dark, the good Her- 
mit saw not into its depths. The very facility of my 
belief, which might have suggested some doubt of its 
sincerity, was but regarded, by his innocent zeal, as 
a more signal triumph of the truth. His own inge- 
nuousness led him to a ready trust in others ; and 
the examples of such conversion as that of the philo- 
sopher, Justin, who, during a walk by the sea-shore, 
received the light into his soul, had prepared him for 
illumination of the spirit, even more rapid than mine. 

During all this time, I neither saw nor heard of 
Alethe ; — nor could my patience have endured through 
so long a privation, had not those mute vestiges of her 
presence that welcomed me every night on my re- 
turn, made me feel that I was still living under her 
gentle influence, and that her sympathy hung round 
every step of my progress. Once, too, when I ven- 
tured to speak her name to Melanius, though he an- 


* V. Hamilton's Egyptiaca. 


THE EPICUREAN. 


143 


swered not my inquiry, there was a smile, I thou<?ht, 
of promise upon his countenance, which love, far 
more alive than faith, was ready to interpret as it 
desired. 

At length, — it was the sixth or seventh evening of 
my solitude, when I lay resting at the door of my 
cave, after the study of the day, — I was startled by 
hearing my name called loudly from the opposite 
rocks ; and looking up, saw, upon the cliff near the 
deserted grottos, Melanius and — oh ! I could not 
doubt — my Alethe by his side ! 

Though I had never, since the first night of my 
return from the desert, ceased to flatter myself with 
the fancy that I was still living in her presence, the 
actual sight of her again made me feel for what a 
long age we had been separated. She was clothed 
all in white, and, as she stood in the last remains of 
the sunshine, appeared to my too prophetic fancy 
like a parting spirit, whose last footsteps on earth 
that pure glory encircled. 

With a delight only to be imagined, I saw them 
descend the rocks, and, placing themselves in the 
boat, proceed directly towards my cave. To dis- 
guise from Melanius the mutual delight with which 
we again met was impossible ; — nor did Alethe even 
attempt to make a secret of her joy. Though blush- 
ing at her own happiness, as little could her frank 
nature conceal it, as the clear waters of Ethiopia can 
hide their gold. Every look, every word, bespoke a 
fulness of affection, to which, doubtful as I was of 
our tenure of happiness, 1 knew not how to respond. 

I was not long, however, left ignorant of the 
bright fate that awaited me ; but, as we wandered 
or rested among the rocks, learned every thing that 
had been arranged since our parting. She had made 
the Hermit, I found, acquainted with all that had 
passed between us ; had told him, without reserve, 
every incident of our voyage, — the avowals, the de- 
monstrations of affection on one side, and the deep 


144 


THE EPICUREAN. 


sentiment that gratitude had awakened on the other. 
Too wise to regard affections so natural, with seve- 
rity, — knowing that they were of heaven, and but 
made evil by man, — the good Hermit had heard of 
our attachment with pleasure ; and, fully satisfied, as 
to the honour and purity of my views, by the fidelity 
with which I had delivered up my trust into his 
hands, saw, in my affection for the young orphan, 
but a providential resource against that friendless 
solitude in which his death must soon leave her. 

As, listening eagerly, I collected these particulars 
from their discourse, I could hardly trust my ears. 
It seemed a happiness too great to be true, to be real ; 
nor can words convey any idea of the joy, the shame, 
the wonder with which I listened, while the holy man 
himself declared that he awaited but the moment, 
when he should find me worthy of becoming a mem- 
ber of the Christian Church, to give me also the hand 
of Alethe in that sacred union, which alone sanctifies 
love, and makes the faith, which it pledges, holy. It 
was but yesterday, he added, that his young charge, 
herself, after a preparation of prayer and repentance, 
such as even her pure spirit required, had been ad- 
mitted, by the sacred ordinance of baptism, into the 
bosom of the faith; — and the white garment she 
wore, and the ring of gold on her finger, “ were sym- 
bols,” he added, “ of that New Life into which she 
had been initiated.”^^® 

I raised my eyes to hers as he spoke, but withdrew 
them again, dazzled and confused. Even her beauty, 
to my imagination, seemed to have undergone some 
brightening change ; and the contrast between that 
open and happy countenance, and the unblest brow 
of the infidel that stood before her, abashed me into 
a sense of unworthiness, and almost checked mv rap- 
ture. 

To that night, however, I look back, as an epoch 
in my existence. It proved that sorrow is not the 
only awakener of devotion, but that joy may some- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


145 


times call the holy spark into life. Returning to my 
cave, with a heart full, even to oppression, of its hap- 
piness, I could find no other relief to my overcharged 
feelir^gs, than that of throwing myself on my knees, 
and, for the first time in my life, uttering a prayer, 
that if, indeed, there were a Being who watched over 
mankind, he would send down one ray of his truth 
into my darkened soul, and make it worthy of the 
blessings, both here and hereafter, proffered to it ! 

My days now rolled on in a perfect dream of hap- 
piness. Every hour of the morning was welcomed 
as bringing nearer and nearer the blest time of sun- 
set, when the Hermit and Alethe never failed to visit 
my now charmed cave, where her smile left, at each 
parting, a light that lasted till her return. Then, our 
rambles together, by star-light, over the mountain ; — 
our pauses, from time to time, to contemplate the 
wonders of the bright heaven above us ; our repose 
by the cistern of tlie rock, and our silent listening, 
through hours that appeared minutes, to the holy elo- 
quence of our teacher ; — all, all was happiness of the 
most heartfelt kind, and such as even the doubts, the 
cold, lingering doubts, that still hung, like a mist, 
around my heart, could neither cloud nor chill. 

As soon as the moonlight nights returned, we used 
to venture into the desert ; and those sands which 
had looked but lately so desolate, in my eyes, now 
assumed even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To the 
light, innocent heart of Alethe, every thing was a 
source of enjoyment. For her, even the desert had 
its jewels and flowers ; and, sometimes, her delight 
was to search among the sands for those beautiful 
pebbles of jasper that abound in them — sometimes 
her eyes sparkled on finding, perhaps, a stunted mari- 
gold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers, that lend 
their dry mockery of ornament to the desert.^^^ In 
all these pursuits and pleasures the good Hermit took 


* V. Clarke. 

13 


146 


THE EPICUREAN. 


a share, — mingling with them occasionally the reflec- 
tions of a benevolent piety, that lent its own cheerful 
hue to all the works of creation, and saw the consol- 
ing truth, “ God is Love,” written legibly every where. 

Such was, for a few weeks, my blissful life. Oh, 
mornings of hope, oh, nights of happiness, with what 
melancholy pleasure do I retrace your flight, and how 
reluctantly pass to the sad events that followed ! 

During this time, in compliance with the wishes of 
Melanius, who seemed unwilling that I should become 
wholly estranged from the world, I used occasionally 
to pay a visit to the neighbouring city, Antinoe,* 
which, as the capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of 
all the luxury of Upper Egypt. But here, so changed 
was my every feeling by the all-absorbing passion 
which now possessed me, that I sauntered, uninterest- 
ed and unamused by either the scenes or the people 
that surrounded me, and, sighing for that rocky soli- 
tude where Alethe breathed, felt this to be the wil- 
derness, and that the world. 

Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that 
were called up, at every step, by the light Grecian 
architecture of this imperial city, did not awaken one 
single regret in my heart — one wish to exchange even 
an hour of my desert for the best luxuries and ho- 
nours that awaited me in the Garden. I saw the 
arches of triumph ; — I walked under the superb por- 
tico, which encircles the whole city with its marble 
shade ; — I stood in the Circus of the Sun, by whose 
rose-coloured pillars the mysterious movements of the 
Nile are measured ; — on all these bright ornaments 
of glory and art, as well as on the gay multitude that 
enlivened them, I looked with an unheeding eye. If 
they awakened in me any thought, it was the mourn- 
ful idea, that, one day, like Thebes and Heliopolis, 
this pageant would pass away, leaving nothing behind 
but a few mouldering ruins, — like the sea-shells found 


* V . Savary and Quatremere. 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


147 


where the ocean has been, — to tell that the great tide 
of Life was once there ! 

But, though indifferent thus to all that had formerly- 
attracted me, there were subjects, once alien to my 
heart, on which it was now most tremblingly alive ; 
and some rumours which had reached me, in one of 
my visits to the city, of an expected change in the 
policy of the Emperor towards the Christians, filled 
my mind with apprehensions as new as they were 
dreadful to me. 

The peace and even favour which the Christians 
enjoyed, during the first four years of the reign of 
Valerian, had removed from them all fear of a re- 
newal of those horrors, which they had experienced 
under the rule of his predecessor, Decius. Of late, 
however, some less friendly dispositions had manifest- 
ed themselves. The bigots of the court, taking alarm 
at the spread of the new faith, had succeeded in fill- 
ing the mind of the monarch with that religious jea- 
lousy, which is the ever- ready parent of cruelty and 
injustice. Among these counsellors of evil was Ma- 
crianus, the Praetorian Prefect, who was, by birth, an 
Egyptian, and had long made himself notorious, — so 
akin is superstition to intolerance, — ^by his addiction, 
to the dark practices of demon- worship and magic 

From this minister, who was now high in the fa- 
vour of Valerian, the new measures of severity 
against the Christians, were expected to emanate. 
All tongues, in all quarters, were busy with the news. 
In the streets, in the public gardens, on the steps of 
the temples, 1 saw, every where, groups of inquirers 
collected, and heard the name of Macrianus upon 
every tongue. It was dreadful, too, to observe, in the 
countenances of those who spoke, the variety of feel- 
ing with which the rumour was discussed, according 
as they desired or dreaded its truth, — according as 
they were likely to be among the torturers or the 
victims. 

Alarmed, although still ignorant of the whole extent 


148 THE EPICUREAN. ^ 

of the danger, I hurried back to the ravine, and, go- 
ing at once to the grotto of Melanius, detailed to him 
every particular of the intelligence I had collected. 
He listened to me with a composure, which I mis- 
took, alas ! for confidence in his own security ; and, 
naming the hour for our evening walk, retired into 
his grotto. 

At the accustomed time, accompanied by Alethe, 
he came to my cave. It was evident, that he had not 
communicated to her the intelligence which I had 
brought, for never did brow wear such happiness as. 
that which now played around hers : — it was, alas ! 
not of this earth. Melanius, himself, though com- 
posed, was thoughtful ; and the solemnity, almost ap- 
proaching to melancholy, with which he placed the 
hand of Alethe in mine — in the performance, too, of 
a ceremony that ought to have filled my heart with 
joy — saddened and alarmed me. This ceremony was 
our betrothment, the act of plighting our faith to 
each other, which we now solemnized on the rock 
before the door of my cave, in the face of that calm, 
sunset heaven, whose one star stood as our witness. 
After a blessing from the Hermit upon our spousal 
pledge, I placed the ring — the earnest of our future 
union — on her finger ; and, in the blush, with which 
she surrendered to me her whole heart at that in- 
stant, forgot every thing but my happiness, and felt 
secure even against fate ! 

We took our accustomed walk over the rocks and 
on the desert. So bright was the moon — more like 
the day-light, indeed, of other climes, — that we could 
see plainly the tracks of the wild antelopes in the 
sand ; and it was not without a slight tremble of feel- 
ing in his voice, as if some melancholy analogy oc 
curred to him as he spoke, that the good Hermit 
said, “ I have observed in the course of my walks, 
that whenever the track of that gentle animal ap- 
pears, there is, almost always, the foot-print of a 
beast of prey near it.”^^^ He regained, however, his 


THE EPICUREAN. 


149 


usual cheerfulness before we parted, and fixed the 
following evening for an excursion, on the other side 
of the ravine, to a point looking, he said, “ towards 
that northern region of the desert, where the hosts 
of the Lord encamped in their departure out of 
bondage.” 

Though, when Alethe was present, all my fears 
even for herself, were forgotten in that perpetual 
element of happiness, which encircled her like the air 
that she breathed, no sooner was I alone, than vague 
terrors and bodings crowded upon me. In vain did 
I try to reason myself out of my fears, by dwelling 
only on the most cheering circumstances, — on the re- 
verence with which Melanius was regarded, even by 
the Pagans, and the inviolate security with which he 
had lived through the most perilous periods, not only 
safe himself, but affording sanctuary in the depths 
of his grottos to others. Though somewhat calmed 
by these considerations, yet when I at length sunk 
off to sleep, dark, horrible dreams took possession of 
my mind. Scenes of death and of torment passed 
confusedly before me ; and, when I awoke, it was 
with the fearful impression that all these horrors 
were real. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

At length, the day dawned, — that dreadful day. 
Impatient to be relieved from my suspense, I threw 
myself into my boat, — the same in which we had 
performed my happy voyage, — and, as fast as oars 
could speed me, hurried away to the city. I found 
the suburbs silent and solitary, but, as I approached 
the Forum, loud yells, like those of barbarians in 
combat, struck on my ear, and, when I entered it, — 
13 ^ 


150 


THE EPICUREAN. 


great God, what a spectacle presented itself ! The 
imperial edict against the Christians had arrived 
during the night, and already the wild fury of bigotry 
was let loose. 

Under a canopy, in the middle of the Forum, was 
the tribunal of the Governor. Two statues, — one 
of Apollo, the other of Osiris, — stood at the bottom 
of the steps that led up to his judgment-seat. Before 
these idols were shrines, to which the devoted Chris- 
tians were dragged from all quarters by the soldiers 
and mob, and there compelled to recant, by throw- 
ing incense into the flame, or, on their refusal, hurried 
away to torture and death. It was an appalling 
scene ; — the consternation, the cries of some of the 
victims, — the pale, silent resolution of others ; — the 
fierce shouts of laughter that broke from the multi- 
tude, when the dropping of the frankincense on the 
altar, proclaimed some denier of Christ and the 
fiend-like triumph with which the courageous Confes- 
sors, who avowed their faith, were led away to the 
flames ; — never could I have conceived such an as- 
semblage of horrors ! 

Though I gazed but for a few minutes, in those 
minutes I felt and fancied enough for years. Alrea- 
dy did the form of Alethe appear to flit before me 
through that tumult ; — her shriek fell on my ear • 
and the very thought so palsied me with terror, that 
I stood fixed and statue-like on the spot. 

Recollecting, however, the fearful preciousness of 
every moment, and that — perhaps, at this very in- 
stant — some emissaries of blood might be on their 
way to the Grottos, I rushed wildly out of the Fo- 
rum, and made my way to the quay. 

The streets were now crowded ; but I ran head- 
long through the multitude, and was already under 
the portico leading down to the river, — already saw 
the boat that was to bear me to Alethe, — when a 
Centurion stood sternly in my path, and I was sur- 
rounded and arrested by soldiers ! It was in vain 


THE EPICUREAN. 


151 


that I implored, that I struggled with t\iem as for 
life, assuring them that I was a stranger, — that I was 
an Athenian, — that I was — not a Christian. The pre- 
cipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence against 
me, and unrelentingly, and by force, they bore me 
away to the quarters of their Chief. 

It was enough to drive me at once to madness ! 
Two hours, two frightful hours, was I kept waiting 
the arrival of the Tribune of their Legion,* — my 
brain burning with a thousand fears and imagina- 
tions, which every passing minute made but more 
likely to be realized. All I could collect, too, from 
the conversations of those around me but added to 
the agonizing apprehensions with which I was rack- 
ed. Troops, it was said, had been sent in all direc- 
tions through the neighbourhood, to bring in the re- 
bellious Christians, and make them bow before the 
Gods of the Empire. With horror, too, I heard of 
Orcus, — Orcus, the High Priest of Memphis, — as one 
of the principal instigators of this sanguinary edict, 
and as here present in Antinoe, animating and direct- 
ing its execution. 

In this state of torture I remained till the arrival 
of the Tribune. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I 
had not perceived his entrance ; — till, hearing a voice, 
in a tone of friendly surprise, exclaim, “ Alciphron !” 
I looked up, and in this legendary Chief recognised a 
young Roman of rank, who had held a militaiy com- 
mand, the year before, at Athens, and was one of 
the most distinguished visiters of the Garden. It 
was no time, however, for courtesies ; — he was pro- 
ceeding with all cordiality to greet me, but, having 
heard him order my instant release, I could wait for 
no more. Acknowledging his kindness but by a grasp 
of the hand, I flew off, like one frantic, through the 
streets, and, in a few minutes, was on the river. 

My sole hope had been to reach the Grottos before 


* A rank, resembling that of Colonel. 


152 


THE EPICUREAN. 


any of the detached parties should arrive, and, by a 
timely flight across the desert, rescue, at least, Alethe 
from their fury. The ill-fated delay that had occur- 
red rendered this hope almost desperate ; but the 
tranquillity I found every where as I proceeded down 
the river, and my fond confidence in the sacredness 
of the Hermit’s retreat, kept my heart from sinking 
altogether under its terrors. 

Between the current and my oars, the boat flew, 
with the speed of wind, along the waters ; and I 
was already near the rocks of the ravine, when I 
saw, turning out of the canal into the river, a barge 
crowded with people, and glittering with arms ! 
How did I ever survive the shock of that sight ? The 
oars dropped, as if struck out of my hands, into the 
water, and I sat, helplessly gazing, as that terrific 
vision approached. In a few minutes, the current 
brought us together ; and I saw, on the deck of the 
barge, Alethe herself and the Hermit surrounded by 
soldiers ! 

We were already passing each other when, with a 
desperate effort, I sprang from my boat and lighted 
upon the edge of their vessel. I knew not what I 
did, for despair was my only prompter. Snatching 
at the sword of one of the soldiers, as I stood totter- 
ing on the edge, I had succeeded in wresting it out 
of his hands, when, at the same moment, I received 
a thrust of a lance from one of his comrades, and fell 
backward into the river. I can just remember ris- 
ing again and making a grasp at the side of the ves- 
sel ; — but the shock, and the faintness from my 
wound, deprived me of all consciousness, and a shriek 
from Alethe, as I sunk, is all that I can recollect of 
what followed. 

Would I had then died ! — Yet, no. Almighty Being 
— I should have died in darkness, and I have lived to 
know Thee ! 

On returning to my senses, I found myself reclined 
on a couch, in a splendid apartment, the whole ap- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


153 


pearance of which being Grecian, I, for a moment, 
forgot all that had passed, and imagined myself in my 
own home at Athens. But too soon the whole dread- 
ful certainty flashed upon me ; and, starting wildly — 
disabled as 1 was — from my couch, I called loudly, 
and with the shriek of a maniac, upon Alethe. 

I was in the house, I then found, of my friend and 
disciple, the young Tribune, who had made the Go- 
vernor acquainted with my name and condition, and 
had received me under his roof, when brought, bleed- 
ing and insensible, to Antinoe. From him I now 
learned at once, — for I could not wait for details, — 
the sum of all that had happened in that dreadful 
interval. Melanius was no more, — Alethe, still alive, 
but in prison ! 

“ Take me to her,” — I had but time to say, — “ take 
me to her instantly, and let me die by her side,” — 
when, nature again failing under such shocks, I re- 
lapsed into insensibility. In this state I continued for 
near an hour, and, on recovering, found the Tribune 
by my side. The horrors, he said, of the Forum 
were, for that day, over, — but what the morrow 
might bring, he shuddered to contemplate. His na- 
ture, it was plain, revolted from the inhuman duties 
in which he was engaged. Touched by the agonies 
he saw me suffer, he, in some degree, relieved them, 
by promising that I should, at nightfall, be conveyed 
to the prison, and, if possible, through his influence, 
gain access to Alethe. She might yet, he added, be 
saved, could I succeed in persuading her to comply 
with the terms of the edict, and make sacrifice to the 
Gods. — “ Otherwise,” said he, “ there is no hope ; — 
the vindictive Orcus, who has resisted even this short 
respite of mercy, will, to-morrow, inexorably demand 
his prey.” 

He then related to me, at my own request, — though 
every word was torture, — all the harrowing details 
of the proceeding before the Tribunal. “ I have seen 
courage,” said he, “ in its noblest forms, in the field ; 


154 


THE EPICUREAN. 


but the calm intrepidity with which that aged Her- 
mit endured torments — which it was hardly less tor- 
ment to witness — surpassed all that I could have con- 
ceived of human fortitude !” 

My poor Alethe, too, — in describing to me her 
conduct, the brave man wept like a child. Over- 
whelmed, he said, at first by her apprehensions for 
my safety, she had given way to a full burst of wo- 
manly weakness. But no sooner was she brought 
before the Tribunal, and the declaration of her faith 
was demanded of her, than a spirit almost superna- 
tural seemed to animate her whole form. “ She 
raised her eyes,” said he, “ calmly, but wdth fervour, 
to heaven, while a blush was the only sign of mortal 
feeling on her features ; — and the clear, sweet, and 
untrembling voice, with which she pronounced her 
own doom, in the words, ‘ I am a Christian !’ sent a 
thrill of admiration and pity throughout the multi- 
tude. Her youth, her loveliness, affected ail hearts, 
and a cry of ‘ Save the young maiden !’ was heard in 
all directions.” 

The implacable Orcus, however, would not hear of 
mercy. Resenting, as it appeared, with ail his dead- 
liest rancour, not only her own escape from his toils, 
but the aid with which she had, so fatally to his views, 
assisted mine, he demanded loudly and in the name 
of the insulted sanctuary of Isis, her instant death. 
It was but by the firm intervention of the Governor, 
who shared the general sympathy in her fate, that the 
delay of another day was granted to give a chance 
to the young maiden of yet recalling her confession, 
and thus affording some pretext for saving her. 

Even in yielding, with evident reluctance, to this 
respite, the inhuman Priest would yet accompany it 
with some mark of his vengeance. Whether for the 
pleasure (observed the Tribune) of mingling mockery 
with his cruelty, or as a warning to her of the doom 
she must ultimately expect, he gave orders that there 
should be tied round her brow one of those chaplets 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


155 


of coral,* with which it is the custom of young Chris- 
tian maidens to array themselves on the day of their 
martyrdom ; — “ and, thus fearfully adorned,” said he, 
“ she was led away, amidst the gaze of the pitying 
multitude, to prison.” 

With these harrowing details the short interval till 
nightfall, — every minute of which seemed an age, — 
was occupied. As soon as it grew dark, I was placed 
upon a litter, — my wound, though not dangerous, re- 
quiring such a conveyance, — and, under the guidance 
of my friend, I was conducted to the prison. Through 
his interest with the guard, we were without diffi- 
culty admitted, and I was borne into the chamber 
where the maiden lay immured. Even the veteran 
guardian of the place seemed touched with compas- 
sion for his prisoner', and supposing her to be asleep, 
had the litter placed gently near her. 

She was half reclining, with her face hid in her 
hands, upon a couch, — at the foot of which stood an 
idol, over whose hideous features a lamp of naphtha 
that hung from the ceiling, shed a wild and ghastly 
glare. On a table before the image stood a censer, 
with a small vessel of incense beside it, — one grain 
of which, thrown voluntarily into the flame, would, 
even now, save that precious life. So strange, so 
fearful was the whole scene, that I almost doubted 
its reality. Alethe ! my own, happy Alethe ! can it, 
I thought, be thou that I look upon ? 

She now, slowly, and with difficulty, raised her 
head from the couch, on observing which, the kind 
Tribune withdrew, and we were left alone. There 
was a paleness, as of death, over her features ; and 
those eyes, which when last I saw them, were but too 
bright, too happy for this world, looked dim and 
sunken. In raising herself up, she put her hand, as if 
from pain, to her forehead, whose marble hue but ap- 


* Une “ de ces couronnes de grain de corail, dont les vierges mar- 
tyres omoient leurs cheveux en allant la mort.” Les Martyrs. 


156 


THE EPIC URE AN. 


peared more death-like from those red bands that lay 
so awfully across it. 

After wandering vaguely for a minute, her eyes 
rested upon me, — and, with a shriek, half terror, half 
joy, she sprung from the couch, and sunk upon her 
knees by my side. She had believed me dead ; and, 
even now, scarcely trusted her senses. “ My hus- 
band ! my love !” she exclaimed ; “oh, if thou comest 
to call me from this world, behold I am ready !” In 
saying thus, she pointed wildly to that ominous 
wreath, and then dropped her head down upon my 
knee, as if an arrow had pierced it. 

“ Alethe !” I cried, — terrified to the very soul by 
that mysterious pang, — and, as if the sound of my 
voice had reanimated her-, she looked up, with a faint 
smile, in my face. Her thoughts, which had evi- 
dently been wandering, became collected ; and in her 
joy at my safety, her sorrow at my suffering, she for- 
got entirely the fate that impended over herself. 
Love, innocent love, alone occupied all her thoughts ; 
and the warmth, the aftection, the devotedness, with 
which she spoke, — how, at any other moment, I 
would have blessed, have lingered upon every word ! 

But the time flew fast — that dreadful morrow was 
approaching. Already I saw her writhing in the 
hands of the torturer, — the flames, the racks, the 
wheels were before my eyes ! Half frantic with the 
fear that her resolution was fixed, I flung myself from 
the litter in an agony of weeping, and supplicated her, 
by the love she bore me, by the happiness that awaited 
us, by her own merciful God, who was too good to 
require such a sacrifice — by all that the most pas- 
sionate anxiety could dictate, I implored that she 
would avert from us the doom that was coming, and 
— but for once — comply with the vain ceremony de- 
manded of her. 

Shrinking from me, as I spoke, — but with a look 
more of sorrow than reproach, “ What, thou, too P 
she said mournfully, — “ thou, into whose spirit I had , 


% 


THE EPICUREAN. 


157 


fondly hoped the same light had entered as into my 
own ! No, never be thou leagued with them who 
would tempt me to ‘ make shipwreck of my faith !’ 
Thou, who couldst alone bind me to life, use not, I 
entreat thee, thy power ; but let me die, as He I serve 
hath commanded, — die for the Truth. Remember 
the holy lessons we heard together on those nights, 
those happy nights, when both the present and future 
smiled, upon us — when even the gift of eternal life 
came more welcome to my soul, from the blessed 
conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in it ; — shall 
I forfeit now that divine privilege ? shall I deny the 
true God, whom we then learned to love ? 

“ No, my own betrothed,” she continued, — pointing 
to the two rings on her finger, — “ behold these 
pledges, — they are both sacred. I should have been 
as true to thee as I am now to heaven, — nor in that 
life to which I am hastening shall our love be forgot- 
ten. Should the baptism of fire, through which I 
shall pass to-morrow, make me worthy to be heai’d 
before the throne of Grace, I will intercede for thy 
soul — I will pray that it may yet share with mine 
that ‘inheritance, immortal and undefiled,’ which 
Mercy offers, and that thou, — and my dear mother, — ■ 
and I ” 

She here dropped her voice ; the momentary ani- 
mation, with which devotion and affection had inspir- 
ed her, vanished ; — and there came a darkness over 
all her features, a livid darkness, — like the approach 
of death, — that made me shudder through every limb. 
Seizing my hand convulsively, and looking at me with 
a fearful eagerness, as if anxious to hear some con- 
soling assurance from iny own lips, — ‘Believe me,’ 
she continued, “ not all the torments they are prepar- 
ing for me, — not even this deep burning pain in my 
brow, to which they will hardly find an equal, — could 
be half so dreadful to me, as the thought that I leave 
thee, without 

Here, her voice again failed ; her head sunk upon 
14 


158 


THE EPICUREAN. 


my arm, and — merciful God, let me forget what I 
then felt, — I saw that she was dying ! Whether I 
uttered any cry, I know not ; — but the Tribune came 
rushing into my chamber, and, looking on the mai- 
den, said, with a face full of horror, “ It is but too 
true !” 

He then told me in a low voice, what he had just 
learned from the guardian of the prison, that the band 
round the young Christian’s brow was — oh, horrible 
cruelty ! — a compound of the most deadly poison, — 
the hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his venge- 
ance, and make the fate of his poor victim secure. 
My first movement was to untie that fatal wreath, — 
but it would not come away — it would not come 
away ! 

Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face ; 
but, unable to speak, took hastily from her bosotn the 
small silver cross which she had brought with her 
from my cave. Having pressed it to her own lips, 
she held it anxiously to mine, and seeing me kiss the 
holy symbol with fervour, looked happy, and smiled. 
The agony of death seemed to have passed away ; — 
there came suddenly over her features a heavenly 
light, some share of which I felt descending into my 
own soul, and, in a few minutes more, she expired in 
my arms. 


Here ends the Manuscript ; hut, on the outer cover there is, 
in the handwriting of a much later period, the following 
Notice, extracted, as it appears, from some Egyptian mar-- 
tyrology : — 

“ Alciphron, — an Epicurean philosopher, converted 
to Christianity, a. d. 257, by a young Egyptian mai- 
den, who suffered martyrdom in that year. Immedi- 
ately upon her death he betook himself to the desert^ 
and lived a life, it is said, of much holiness and peni- 


THE EPICUREAN. 


159 


tence. During the persecution under Dioclesian, 
his sufferings for the faith were most exemplary ; 
and being at length, at an advanced age, condemned 
to hard labour, for refusing to comply with an Im- 
perial edict, he died at the Brass Mines of Palestine, 
A. D. 297.— 

“ As Alciphron held the opinions maintained since 
by Arius, his memory has not been spared by Atha- 
nasiari writers, who, among other charges, accuse him 
of having been addicted to the superstitions of Egypt. 
For this calumny, however, there appears to be no 
better foundation than a circumstance, recorded by 
one of his brother monks, that there was found, 
after his death, a small metal mirror, like those used 
in the ceremonies of Isis, suspended around his 
neck.” 








NOTES. 


(1.) Page 14. — For the importance attached to dreams by the 
ancients, see Joriin, Remarks on Ecclesiastical History, vol. i. p. 90. 

(2.) Page 18. — “ The Pillar of Pillars'^ — more properly, perhaps, 
“ the Column of the Pillars,” v. Ahdallatif Relation de I’Egypte, 
and the notes of M. de Sacy. The great portico round this column 
(formerly designated Pompey’s, but now known to have been erected 
in honour of Dioclesiari) was still standing, M. de Sacy says, in the 
time of Saladin. v. Lord Valenti a' s Travels. 

(3.) Page 20. — Ammianus thus speaks of the state of Alexandria 
in his time, which was, I believe, as late as the end of the fourth 
century : — “Ne nunc quidem in eadem urbe Doctrinae variae silent, 
non apud nos exaruit Musica nec Harmonia coriticuit.” Lib. 22. 

(4.) lb. — From the character of the features of the Sphinx, and 
a passage in Herodotus, describing the Egyptians as luXayxpoes xai 
ovXorptKei, Volney, Bruce, and a few others, have concluded that the 
ancient inhabitants of Egypt were negroes. But this opinion is con- 
tradicted by a host of authorities. See Gasteva's notes upon Browne's 
Travels, for the result of Blumejibach’s dissection of a variety of 
mummies. Denon, speaking of the character of the heads repre- 
sented in the ancient sculpture and painting of Egypt says, “ Celle 
des femmes ressemble encore k la figure des jolies femmes d’au- 
jourd’hui : de la rondeur, de la voluptd, le nez petit, les yeux longs, 
pen ouverts,” &,c. &c. He could judge, too, he says, from the fe- 
male mummies, “que leurs cheveux etoient longs et lisses, que le 
caractere de t6te de la plupart tenoitdubeau style.” — “ Je rapportai,” 
he adds, “ une tete de vieille femme qui ^toit aussi belle que celles 
de Michel-Ange, et leur resernbloit beaucoup.” 

In a “ Description generate de Thebes," by Messrs. Jollois et 
Desvilliers, they say, “ Toutes les sculptures Egyptiennes, depuis les 
plus grands colosses de Thbbes jusqu’aux plus petites idoles, ne 
rappellent en aucune mani^re les traits de la figure des nbgres; outre 
que les tetes rnornies des catacombes de Thebes prdsentent des profils 
droits.” See also M. Jomard's “ Description of Syene and the Ca. 

14 * 


162 


NOTES. 


taracts,” Baron Larrey, on the “ conformation physique” of the 
Egfyptians, «fec. But the most satisfactory refutation of the opinion 
of Volney has been afforded within these few years, by Doctor Gran- 
ville, who having been lucky enough to obtain possession of a perfect 
female mummy, has, by the dissection and admeasurement of its 
form, completely established the fact, that the ancient Egyptians 
were of the Caucasian race, not of the Ethiopian. See this gentle- 
man’s curious “ Essay on Egyptian Mummies,''^ read before the 
Royal Society, April 14, 1825. • 

i)e Pauw, the great depreciator of every thing Egyptian, has on 
the authority of a passage in .dElian, presumed to affix to the coun- 
try women of Cleopatra the stigma of complete and unredeemed ugli- 
ness. The following line of Euripides, however, is an answer to 
such charges : — 

NciXov fjiEv al6s KaWinapOevoi poai. 

In addition to the celebrated instances of Cleopatra, Rhodope, &c. 
we are told, on the authority of Manetho (as given by Zoega from 
Georgius Syncellus,) of a beautiful queen of Memphis, Nitocris, of 
the sixth dynasty, who in addition to other charms and perfections, 
was (rather inconsistently with the negro hypothesis) ^avdr} rriv 

See, for a tribute to the beauty of the Egyptian women, Mon- 
tesquieu’s Temple de Guide. 

(5.) Page 25. — ” Among beds of lotus-flowers^ — v. Strabo. 

(6.) Ib. — “ Read those sublime words on the Temple ofNeitha .’* — 
To 6' £v JjiXEi Trjs A-drjvaSf f]v Kai \(iiv vopi^ovariVy eSog^eiriypatpriv roiavTriv^ 
Eyoj ftjtu TTuv TO yeyovog^ Kai ov Kai effopcvovj /cat tov epoviztTzXov ovSeig ’rca 
aT:£Ku\vip£v. Plutarch de Isid. et Osir. 

(7.) Ib. — “ Wandered among the prostrate obelisks of Heliopolis.'** 
— De-la,, en remontant toujours le Nil, on trouve a, deux cent 
cinquante pas, ou environ de la Matarde, les traces de I’ancienne 
Heliopolis, ou Ville de Soleil, a. qui ce lieu dtoit particulierement 
consacre. C’est pour cette raison qu’ou I’appelloit encore I’CEil, ou la 
Fontaine du Soleil. Maillet. 

(8.) Ib. — “ Isle of the Golden Venus'* — ” On trouve une ile ap- 
pelde Venus-Dor^e, ou le champ d’or, avant de remonter jusqu’a 
Memphis.” Voyages de Pythagore. 

(9.) Page 27. — For an account of the Table of Emerald, v. Let. 
tres sur VOrigine des Dieux d'Egypte. De Pauw supposes it to be 
a modern fiction of the Arabs. Many writers have fancied that the 
art of making gold was the great secret that lay hid under the forms 
of Egyptian theology. “ La science Henndtique,” says the Bene- 
dictine, Pernetz, “ I’art sacerdotal, ^toit la source de toutes les 
richesses des Rois d’Egypte, et I’objet de ces mysteres si caches sous 
Je voile de leur pr^tendue Religion.” Fables Egyptiennes. The 
hieroglyphs, that formerly covered the Pyramids, are supposed by 


NOTES. 163 

some of these writers to relate to the same art. See Mutus ikber, 
Rupella, 

(10.) Page 28. — “By reflecting the sun’s rays,” says Clarke^ 
speaking of the Pyramids, “ they appeared white as snow.” 

(11.) Ib. — For Bubastis, the Diana of the Egyptians, v. Jablonski^ 
lib. 3. cap. 4. 

(12.) Page 29. — “ The light coracle, ^c. — v. Amailhon, “ His. 
toire de la Navigation et du Commerce des Egyptiens sous les 
Ptolemies?^ See also, for a description of the various kinds of boats 
used on the Nile, Maillet, tom. i. p. 98. 

13.) Page 30. — v. Maurice, Appendix to “ Ruins of Babylon.” 
Another reason, he says, for their worship of the Ibis, “ founded on 
their love of geometry, was (according to Plutarch) that the space 
between its legs, when parted asunder, as it walks, together with its 
beak, forms a complete equilateral triangle.” From the examination 
of the embalmed birds, found in the Catacombs of Saccara, there 
seems to be no doubt tliat the Ibis was the same kind of bird as that 
described by Bruce, under the Arabian name of Abou Hannes. 

(14.) Ib. — “ The golden blossoms of the hean-fower” — La fleur 
cn est mill^ fois plus odoriferante que celles de nos feves d’Europe, 
quoique leur parfum nous paroisse si agrdable. Com me on en sbme 
beaucoup dans les terres voisines, du Caire, du c6t4 de I’occident, 
c’est quelque chose de charmant que Pair embaumd que I’on respird 
le soir sur les terrasses, quand le vent de I’ouest vient k souffler, et y 
apporte cette odeur admirable.” Maillet. 

(15.) Ib. — “ A Sistrum,'^ ^c. — “ Isis est genius,” says Servius, 
“ jEgypti, qui per sistri motum, quod gerit in dextra, Nili accessus 
recessusque significat.” 

(16.) Page 32. — “ The ivy that encircled it,** ^c. — The ivy was 
consecrated to Osiris, v. Diodor. Sic. 1. 10. ' 

(17.) Ib. — “ The small mirror.** — “ Quelques unes,” says Dupuis, 
describing the processions of Isis, “ portoient des miroirs attaches k 
leurs ^paules, a6n de multiplier et de porter dans tous les sens les 
images de la Deesse.” Origene des Cultus, tom. viii. p. 847. A 
mirror, it appears, was also one of the emblems in the mysteries of 
Bacchus. 

(18.) Page 33. — “ There lies, to the north of Memphis,** — 
“Tout prouve que la territoire de Sakkarah ^toit la Necropolis au 
sud de Memphis, et le faubourg opposd k celui-ci, oh sont les pyra- 
mides de Gizeh, une autre Ville des Morts, qui terminoit Memphis 
au nord.” Denon. 

There is nothing known with certainty as to the site of Memphis, 


164 


NOTES 


but it will be perceived that the description of its position ^ven by 
the Epicurean corresponds, in almost every particular, with that 
which M. Maillet (the French consul, for many years, at Cairo) has, 
in his work on Egypt, left us. It must be always borne in mind, too, 
that of the distances between the respective places here mentioned, 
we have no longer any accurate means of judging. 

(19.) Ib. — “iooHng- out with the same face and features y-— 

Par-lk non seulement on conservoit les corps d’une famille entibre, 
mais en descendant dans ces lieux sohterreins, oh ils btoient ddposbs, 
on pouvoit se reprbsenter en un instant tous ses ancetres depuis 
plusieurs milliers d’annbes, tels a-peu.prbs qu’ils btoient de leur 
vivant. Maillet. • 

(20.) Ib. — “ Pyramid beyond Pyramid.'*'' — “ Multas olim pyra- 
midas fuisse e ruinis arguitur.” Zoega. — Vansleb. who visited more 
than ten of the small pyramids, is of opinion that there must have 
originally been a hundred in this place. 

See, on the subject of the lake to the northward of Memphis, 
Shaw's Travels, p. 302. 

(21.) Page 36. — “ The Theban beetle." — “On voit en Egypte, 
aprbs la retraite du Nil et la fdcondation des terres, le limon couvert 
d’une multitude de scarabdes. Un pareil phbnorahne a dh sembler 
aux Egyptians le plus propre k peindre une nouvelle existence.” 
M. Jornard. — Partly for the same reason, and partly for another, still 
more fanciful, the early Christians used to apply this emblem to 
Christ. “ Bonus ille scarabaeus meus,” says St. Augustine, “ non ek 
tantum de causk quod unigen itus, quod ipseraet sui auctor mortalium 
speciem induerit, sed qubd in hac nostra faece sese volutaverit et ex 
hac ipsk nasci voluerit.” 

(22.) Page 37. — “ Enshrined within a case of crystal." — “ Les 
Egyptians ont fait aussi, pour conserver leurs morts, des caisses de 
verre.” De Pauw. — He mentions, also, in another place, a sort of 
transparent substance, which the Ethiopians used for the same pur- 
pose, and which was frequently mistaken by the Greeks for glass. 

(23.)* Tb. — “ Among the emblems of death." — “ Un prbtre, qui brise 
la tige d’une fleur, des oiseaux qui s’envolent, sont les emblbrnes de 
la mort et de I’arne qui se separe du corps.” Denon. 

Theseus employs the same image in the Phaedra ; — 

Opvis yap wf Tts SK afavros et 

n rjStijx' es aSov iriKpov hppriaaaa jxoi. 

(24.) Ib. — “ The singular appearance of a Cross so frequently re- 
curring among the hieroglyphics of Egypt, had excited the curiosity 
of the Christians at a very early period of ecclesiastical history ; and 
as some of the Priests, who were acquainted with the meaning of the 
hieroglyphics, became converted to Christianity, the secret transpired. 


NOTES, 165 

* The converted heathens,’ says Socrates Scholasticus, * explained the 
symbol, and declared that it signified Life to Come.’ ” Clarice. 

Lipsius, therefore, is mistaken in supposing the Cross to have been 
an emblem peculiar to the Christians. See, on this subject, L'His. 
toire des Juifs, liv. 6. c. 16. 

It is singular enough that while the Cross was thus held sacred 
among the Egyptians, not only the custom of marking the forehead 
with the sign of the Cross, but Baptism and the consecration of the 
bread in the Eucharist were imitated in the mysterious ceremonies 
of Mithra. Tertull. de Proscriptione Hereticorunu 

Zoega is of opinion that the Cross, said to have been for the first 
time found, on the destruction of the temple of Serapis, by the 
Christians, could not have been the crux ansata ; as nothing is more 
common than this emblem on all the Egyptian monuments. 

(25.) Page 39. — “ Stood shadowless.’* — It was an idea entertained 
among the ancients that the Pyramids were so constructed (“ me- 
canicS, constructione,” says Ammianus Marcellinus) as never to cast 
any shadow. 

(26.) Page 40. — “ Rhodope.” — From the story of Rhodope, Zoega 
thinks, “ videntur Arabes ansam arripuisse ut in una ex pyramidibus, 
genii loco, habitare dicerent mulierem nudam insignis pulchritudinis 
quEe aspecto suo homines insanire faciat.” De Usu Obeliscorum. 
See also L’Egypte de Murtadi par Vattier. 

(27.) Page 41. — “ The Gates of Oblivion.” — “ Apud Memphim 
eeneas quasdara portas, quse Lethes et Cocyti (hoc est oblivionis et 
lamentationis) appellantur aperiri, gravem asperumque edentes so- 
num.” Zoega. 

(28.) Page 42. — “A file of lifeless bodies.” — See, for the custom 
of burying the dead upright (“ post funus stantia busto corpora,” as 
Statius describes it,) Dr. Clarke’s preface to the 2d section of his fifth 
volume. They used to insert precious stones in the place of the 
eyes. “ Les yeux ^toient formas d’^meraudes, de turquoises,” &,c. — 
v. Masoudi, quoted by Quatremere. 

(29.) Page 44. — “ The din with which the gates clashed together.” 
— The following verses of Claudian are supposed to have been meant 
as a description of those imitations of the noise of earthquake and 
thunder which, by means of the Ceraunoscope, and other such con- 
trivances, were practised in the shows of the Mysteries : — 

Jam mihi cemuntur trepidis delubra moveri 
Sedibus, et claram dispergere culmina lucem, 

Adventura testata Dei. Jam magnus ab imis 
Auditur fremitus terris, templumque remugit 
Cecropium. Rapt. Proserp. Mb. L 


166 


NOTES. 


(30.) Tage 44 . — It seemed as if every echoy — See, for the echoe® 
in the pyramids, Plutarch., de Placitis Philosoph. 

(31.) Page 45. — “ Pale phantom-like shapes ” — “ Ce moment heu- 
reux (de I’Autopsie) dtoit prepare par des scdnes efFrayantes, par des 
alternatives de crainte et de joie, de lumiere et de tdnebres, par la 
lueur des dclairs, par le bruit terrible de la foudre, qu’on imitoit, et 
par des apparitions de spectres, des illusions magiques, qui frappoient 
les yeux et les oreilles tout ensemble.” Dupuis. 

(32.) Page 46. — “ Serpents of fire .” — “ Ces considerations me 
portent penser que, dans les mystbres, ces phdnomenes dtoient 
beaucoup mieux executdes, et sans comparaison plus terribles d I’aide 
de quelque composition pyrique qui est restde cachde, comme celie 
du feu Grdgeois.” De Pauw. 

(33.) Page 47. — “ The burning of the reed-beds of Ethiopia .” — 
“ II n’y a point d’autre moyen que de porter le feu dans ces forets de 
roseaux, qui rdpandent alors dans tout le pais une lumibre aussi con- 
siderable que celie du jour mdme.” Maillet, tom. 1. p. 63. 

(34.) Ib. — “ The sound of torrents .” — The Nile, Pliny tells us, 
was admitted into the Pyramid. 

(35.) Page 48. — “ I had given myself up .” — ‘ ‘ On exer 5 oit,” says 
Dupuis. “ les recipiendaires, pendant plusieurs jours, h traverser, ti 
la nage, une grande dtendue d’eau. On les y jettoit et ce n’dtoit 
• qu’avec peine qu’ils s’en retiroient. On appliquoit le fer et le feu sur 
leurs membres. On les faisoit passer b. travers les flammes.” 

The aspirants were often in considerable danger, and Pathagoras, 
we are told, nearly lost his life in the trials, v. Recherches .sur les 
Initiations, par Robin. 

(36.) Page 52. — “ The God of Silence and Light.” “ Enfin Har- 
pocrates reprdsentoit aussi le Soleil. II est vrai que c’dtoit aussi le 
Dieu du Silence ; il mettoit le doigt sur la bouche parcequ’on adoroit 
le Soleil avec un respectueux silence ; et c’est de lb, qu’est venu le 

Sigd des Basilidiens, qui tiroient leur origine de I’Europe 

Enfin Harpocrates dtoit assis sur le lotus, qui est la plante du Soleil.” 
Hist, des Juifs. 

(37.) Page 53. — For the two cups used in the mysteries, see 
DHistoire des Juifs, liv. 9. c. 16. 

(38.) Ib. — “ Osiris.” — Osiris, under the name of Serapis, was sup- 
posed to rule over the subterranean world ; and performed the office 
of Pluto, in the mythology of the Egyptians. “ They believed,” 
says Dr. Pritchard, “ that Serapis presided over the region of departed 
souls, during the period of their absence, when languishing without 
bodies, and that the dead were deposited in his palace.” Analysis 
of the Egyptian Mythology. 


NOTES. 


167 


(^39.) Page 53. — “ To cool the lips of the dead.'* — “ Frigidam illam 
aqnam post mortem, tanquam Hebes poculum, expetitam.” Zoega. 
— The Lethe of the Egyptians was called Ameles. See Dupuis^ 
tom. 8. p. 652. 

(40.) Ib. — “ The young cup-hearer on the other side." — “ Enfin 
on disoit qu’il y avoit deux coupes, I’une en haut et I’autre en bas. 
Celui qui beuvoit de la coupe d’en bas, avoit toujours soif, ses ddsira 
s’augmentoit au lieu de s’dteindre, mais celui qui beuvoit de la coupe 
en haut dtoit rempli et content. Cette premibre coupe etoit la con- 
noissance de la nature, qui ne satisfait jamais pleinement ceux qui 
en sordent les mystdres ; et la seconde coupe, dans laquelle on devoit 
boire pour n’avoir jamais soif, dtoit la connaissance>^des mystdres du 
Ciel.” Hist, des Juifs, liv. 9. chap. 16. 

(41.) Ib. — “ She mingled a draught divine." — The ms a9ava<rias 
ipapjjtaKov, which, according to Diodorus Siculus, Isis prepared for her 
son Orus. — Lib. 1. 

(42.) Page 55. — “ Grasshopper symbol of Initiation." — Hor. Apoll, 
• — The grasshopper was also consecrated to the sun as being mu- 
sical. 

(43.) Ib. — Isle of Gardens." — The isle Antirrhodus, near Alex- 
andria. Maillet. 

(44.) Ib. — “ Vineyard at Anthylla." — v. Athen. Deipnos. 

(45.) Page 57. — “ We can see those stars." — “ On voyoit en plein 
jour par ces ouvertures les dtoiles, et meme quelques plandtes en leur 
plus grande latitude septentrionale ; et les prdtres avoient bientbt 
profitd de ce phdnomene, pour observer diverses heures la passage 
des dtoiles.” Sethos. — Strabo mentions certain caves or pits, con- 
structed for the purpose of astronomical observations, which lay in 
the Zelopolitan prefecture, beyond Heliopolis. 

(46.) Ib. — “ That dark Deity." — Serapis, Sol Inferus. — Atheno- 
dorus, scriptor vetustus, apud Clementine Alexandrinum in Protrep. 
tico, ait “ simulacra Serapidis conspicue esse colore coeruleo et nigri- 
cante.” Macrobius, in verbis descriptis, § 6. Docet, nos apud 
.dEgyptios “ simulacra solis infera fingi colore coeruleo.” Jahlonski. 

(47.) Ib. — “ A plantain." — This tree was dedicated to the Genii 
of the Shades, from its being an emblem of repose and cooling airs. 
“Cui imminet musae folium, quod ab Iside infera geniisque ei ad- 
dictis manu geri solitum, umbram requiemque et auras frigidas 
subindigitare videtur.” Zoega, 

(48.) Page 61. — '•'‘He spoke of the pre-existence of the soul." ^c. 
— For a full account of the doctrines which are here represented as 
having been taught to the initiated in the Egyptian mysteries, the 


168 


NOTES, 


reader may consult Dupuis, Pritchard's Analysis of the Egyptian 
Mytyology, ^c. ^c. “ L’on decouvroit I’origine de l’&,me, sa chute 

sur la terre, k travers les spheres et les ^l^mens, et son retour au lieu 
de son origine .... c’^toit ici la partie la plus m^taphysique, etque 
ne pourroit gufere entendre le coinmun des Initios, mas dont on lui 
donnoit le spectacle par des figures et des spectres allegoriques.” 
Dupuis. 

(49.) Page 62. — “ Thpse fields of radiance^ — See Beausohre, lib. 
3. c. 4, for the “ terre bienheureuse et lumineuse,” which the Ma- 
nicheans supposed God to inhabit. Plato, too, speaks (in Phaed.) of 
a pure land lying in the pure sky (r>iv yriv KaOapav ev sadapip Keiadai 
ovpavu),) the abode of divinity, of innocence, and of hfe.” 

(50.) Ib. — “ As he spake these words, a hurst of pure, brilliant 
light'' — The power of producing a sudden and dazzling effusion of 
light, which was one of the arts etnployed by the contrivers of the 
ancient Mysteries, is thus described in a few words by Apuleius, who 
was himself admitted to witness the Isiac ceremonies at Corinth : — 
“ Nocte media, vidi solem candido cornscantem lumine.” 

(51.) Page 63. — “ Tracing it frorn the first moment of earthward 
desire." — In the original construction of this work, there was an epi- 
sode introduced here (which I have since published in another form,) 
illustrating the doctrine of the fall of the soul by the Oriental fable 
of the Loves of the Angels. 

(52.) Ib. — “ Restoring her lost wings." — Damascius, in his Life 
of Isidorus, says, “ Ex anliquissimis Philosophis Pythagoram et Pla- 
tonem Isidorus ut Deos coluit, et eoruni animas alatas esse dixit quas 
in locum supercoelestem inque campum veritatis et pratum elevatas, 
divinis putavit ideis pasci.” Apud Phot. Bibliothec. 

(53.) Page 64. — “ A pale moonlike meteor," — Apuleius, in des- 
cribing the miraculous appearances exhibited in the mysteries, says, 
“ Nocte media, vidi solem candido coruscantem lumine.” Meta, 
morphos. lib. 11. 

(54.) Ib. — “ So entirely did the illusion of the scene," — In 

tracing the early connection of spectacles with the ceremonies of 
religion, Voltaire says, “II y a bien plus ; les vdritables grandes tra- 
gedies, les representations imposantes et terribles, etoient les mys- 
teres sacres, qu’on ceiebroit dans les plus vastes temples du monde, 
en presence des seuls Inities ; c’etoit le, que les habits, les decora- 
tions, les machines etoient propres au sujet ; et le sujet etoit la vie 
presente et la vie future.” Des divers changemens arrives d I' art 
tragique. 

To these scenic representations in the Egyptian mysteries, there is 
evidently an allusion in the vision of Ezekiel, where the Spirit shows 
him the abominations which the Israelites learned in Egypt : — “ Then 
$aid he unto me, ‘ Son of man, hast thou seen what the ancients of 


NOTES, 


169 


the house of Israel do in the dark, every man in the chambers of his 
imagery ?’ ” Chap. 8. 

(55.) Page 67. — “ The Seven Tables of stone." — “ Bernard, Comte 
de la Marche Trdvisane, instruit par la lecture des livres anciens, 
dit, qu’ Hermes trouva sept tables dans la vallee d’Hebron, sur les- 
quelles dtoient graves les principes des arts liberaux.” Fables 
Egyptiennes, See Jablonski de stelis Herm, 

(56.) Ib.— “ Beside the goat of Mendes."—For an account of the 
animal worship of the Egyptians, see De Pauw, tom. 2. 

(57.) Ib. — “ The crocodile with costly gems." — Herodotus {Eu. 
terh.) tells us that the people about Thebes and Lake Moeris, kept a 
number of tame crocodiles, which they worshipped, and dressed them 
out with gems and golden ornaments in their ears. 

(58 ') Ib.— “ The Isiac serpents."— On auguroit bien de serpens 
Isiaques, lorsqu’ils gohtoient I’offrande et sc trainoient lentement 
autour de I’autel.” De Pauw. 


(59 ) Pao-e 68.—“ Hence, the festivals and hymns," ^-c.— For an 
account of "the various festivals at the different periods of the sun s 
progress, in the spring, and in the autumn, see Dupuis and Pritchard. 

(60.) Ib.— “ The Mysteries of the Night."— v. Athenag. Leg. pro 
Christ, p. 138. 


(61 ) Page 70.—“ A peal like that of thunder."— See, for some 
curious rernarks on the mode of 

the ancient mysteries, De Pauw, tom. 1. p- 323. The ™achjne 
with which these efiects were produced on the stage was called a 

ceraunoscope. 

(62 ') Paffe 73.—“ Windings capriciously intricate."— In addition 
to the accounts which the ancien'^ts liave left us of the prod^.us 
excavations in all parts of 

under the labyrinth — the subterranean stables of the Phebaid, c 
tainmg a thouLnd horses-the crypts of Upper 

the bed of the Nile, &c. &c.— the stories and traditions current 
among the Arabs still preserve the memory of those wonderful sub. 
structfons “ Un Arabe,” says Paul Lucas, “ qui ^toit avec nous, 
m’Lsura qii’^tant entrd autrefois dans le I-byrinthe ^ avoa ma^ 
dans les chambres souterrames jusqu en un lieu ou 3" . 

gr!>nde place environnde de plusieurs mches ‘1"> 

Elites boutiques d’oii I’on entroit dans d’autres alldes at dans cliam- 
C .an, Zvo.r e„ tronver la fin.” In speaking, too, of the ar. 
cadeV along the Nile, near Cosseir, “ Ils me dirent meme ((ue cts 
soute'rrains dtoient si profondes qa’il y cn 

journdes de Ik, et qu'ils oonduisoient dans un ' o" ''“J"' 

beau iardins, qu’on y trouvoit de belles maisons, &.C. &c. 

15 


170 


NOTES. 


See also in M. Quatremere's Memoirs sur VEgypte, tom. 1. p. 142, 
an account of a subterranean reservoir, said to have been discovered 
at Kais, and of the expedition undertaken by a party of persons, in a 
lon^ narrow boat, for the purpose of exploring it. “ Leur voyage 
avoit 6i6 de six jours, dont les quatre premiers furent employes k 
peuetrer les bords ; les deux autres k revenir au lieu d’oii ils dtoient 
partis. Pendant tout cet intervalle ils ne purent atteindre I’extremite 
du bassin. L’emir Ala-eddin-Tamboga, gouverneur de Behnesa, 
ecrivit ces details au sultan, qui en fut extremement surpris.” 

(63.) Page 75. — “ T^e small island in the centre of Lake Moeris.'^ 
The position here given to Lake Moeris, in making it the immediate 
boundary of the city of Memphis to the south, correvsponds exactly 
with the site q^ssigned to it by Maillet : — “ Memphis avoit encore i 
son rnidi un vaste reservoir, par oii tout ce qui peut servir k la com- 
niodite el k I’agrdment de la vie lui 6toit voiture abondamment de 
toutes les parties de I’Egypte. Ce lac qui la terminoit de ce c6te-lk,” 
6lc. &.C. tom. 2. p. 7. 

(64.) Ib. — “ Ruins rising blackly above the waveV — “ On voit sur 
la rive orientale des antiquitds qui sont presque entierement sous les 
eaux.” Belzoni. 

(65.) Page 76. — “ Its thundering portals.''^ — “ Quorundam autem 
domorum (in Labyrintho) tabs est situs, ut adaperientibus fores toni- 
truum intus terribile existat.” Pliny. 

(66.) Ib. — “ Leaves that serve as cups.'’’ — Strabo. According to 
the French translator of Strabo, it was the fruit of the f aha .Egypti- 
acu, not the leaf, that was used for this purpose. “ Le KiPojpiovf he 
says, “ devoit s’entendre de la capsule ou fruit de cette plaate, dont 
les Egyptiens se servoient comme d’un vase, imaginant que I’eut du 
Nil y devenoit ddlicieuse.” 

(67.) Page 78. — “ Pleasure-boats or yachts'' — Called Thalameges 
from the pavilion on the deck. v. Strabo. 

(68.) Page 79. — “ Covered with beds of those pale, sweet roses." 
— As April is the season for gathering these roses (.see Malte-Brun's 
Economical Calendar,) the Epicurean could not, of course, mean to 
say that he saw them actually in flower. 

(69.) Page 80. — “ The lizards upon the bank." — “ L’or et I’azur 
brillent en bandes longitudinales sur leur corps entier, et leur queue 
est du plus beau bleu celeste.” Sonnini. 

(70.) Page 81. — The canal through which we now sailed." — “ Un 
Canal,” says Maillet, “ trbs profond et trbs large y voituroit les eaux 
du Nil.” 


(71.) Page 82. — “ For a draught of whose flood," ^c . — “ Ancienne- 


NOTES. 


171 


merit on portoit les eaux du Nil jusqu’k des contrdes fort dloigndes, et 
Burtout chez les princesses du sang des Ptolotn^es, marines dans des 
families dtrangeres.” De Pauw. 

The water thus conveyed to other lands was, as we may collect 
from Juvenal, chiefly intended for the use of the Temples of Isis, 
established in those countries. 

Si Candida jusserit lo, 

Ibit ad ^gypti finem, calidaque petitas 
A Meroe portabit aquas, ut spargat in eedem 
Isidis, antique quae proxima surgit ovili. Sat. vi. 

(72.) Page 84. — “ Bearing each the name of its oxoner.'^ — “ Le 
nom du maitre y 6toit dcrit, pendant la nuit, en lettres de feu.” 
Maillet. . . 

(73.) Page 85. — “ Cups of that frail crystal.'^ — called Alassontes. 
For their brittleness Martial is an authority : — 

Tolle, puer, calices, tepidique toreumata Nili, 

Et mihi securS, pocula trade manu. 

‘ Sans parler ici des coupes d’un verre porte jusqu’^, la puretd du 
crystal, ni de cclles qu’on appelloit Alassontes, et qu’on suppose avoir 
representd des figures dont les couleurs changeoient suivant I’aspect 
sous lequel on les regardoit, a pen prds comme ce qu’on nomme vul- 
gairement Gorge de pigeon, &c.” De Pauw. 

(74.) Ib. — “ Bracelets of the black beans of Abyssinia.'^ — The 
bean of the Glycyne, which is so beautiful as to be strung into neck, 
laces and bracelets, is generally known by the name of the black 
bean of Abyssinia. Niebuhr. 

(75.) Ib. — “ Sweet lotus-wood jiute.^^ — See M. Villoteau on the 
musical instruments of the Egyptians. 

(76.) Ib. — “ Shine like the brow of Mount Atlas at night?^ — So. 
linus speaks of the snowy summit of Mount Atlas glittering with 
flames at night. In the account of the Periplus of Hanno, as well 
as in that of Eudoxus, we read that as those navigators were coasting 
this part of Africa, torrents of light were seen to fall on the sea. 

(77.) Page 86. — “ The tears of Isis.’* — “ Per lacrymas, vero, Isi- 
dis intelligo effluvia quaedam Lunse, quibus tantam vim videntur tri. 
buisse iEgypti.” Jablonski. — He is of opinion that the superstition 
of the Nucta, or miraculous drop, is a relic of the veneration paid to 
the dews, as the tears of Isis. 

(78.) Ib. — “ The rustling of the acacias,” ^c. — Travels of Cap. 
tain Mangles. 


(79.) Page 87. — “ Supposed to rest in the valley of the moon.”- 


172 


NOTES. 


Plutarch. Dupuis, tom. 10. The Manicheans held the same be. 
lief. See Beausobre, p. 565. 

(80.) Pag^e 87. — “ Sothis, the fair star of the waters .’’^ — vipaywyov 
is the epithet applied to this star by Plutarch de Isid. 

(81.) Ib. — “ Was its hirth-star.^* — 'H SojOew? avaroXt] ysveasctii 
Karap^^^ovaa rrjs eis tov Koapov, Porphyr. de Antro Nymph. 

(82.) Pap^e 91. — “ Golden Mountains. — v. Wilford on Egypt and 
the Nile, Asiatic Researches. 

(83.) Ib. — ^^Sweet-smelling wood.'' — “A I’^poque de la crue le 
Nil Vert charie les planches d’un bois qui a une odeur semblable k 
cehe de I’encens.” Quatremere. 

(84.) Pa^e 92. — “ Such a profusion of the white flowers," ^c . — 
“ On les voit comme jadis cueiller dans les champs des tiges du lo- 
tus, signes du ddbordement et prdsages de I’abondance ; ils s’enve. 
loppent les bras et le corps avec les longues tiges fleuries, et par- 
courent les rues,” &c. Description des Tombeaux des Rois, par 
M. Costaz. 

(85.) Page 94. — “ While composing his Commentary on the Scrip, 
tures." — It was during the compositv *n of his great critical work, the 
Hexapla, that Origen employed these female scribes. 

(86.) Page 95. — “ That rich tapestry, ^c." 



Non ego praetulerim Babylonica picta superbb 
Texta, Semiramia, quae variantur acu. 


(87.) Page 97. — “ The duty of some of these young servitors ." — 
De Pauw, who differs in opinion from those who supposed women to 
be eligible to the higher sacerdotal offices in Egypt, thus enumerates 
the tasks to which their superintendence was, as he thinks, confined ; 
— “ Les femmes n’ont pu tout au plus dans I’ordre secondaire, 
s’acquilter que de quelques emplois sans consequence ; comme de 
nourrir des scarabdes, des musaraignes et d’autres petits animaux 
sacrds.” Tom. 1. Sect. 2. 

(88.) Page 112. — “ We had long since left this mountain behind." 
— The voyages on the Nile are, under favourable circumstances, per- 
formed with considerable rapidity. “ En cinq ou six jours,” says 
Maillet, “ on pourroit aisdment remonter de I’embouchure du Nil k 
ses cataractes, ou descendre des cataractes jusqu’^ la mer.” The 
great uncertainty of the navigation is proved by what Belzoni tells 
us : — “ Nous ne mimes cette fois que deux jours et demi pour faire lo 
trajet du Caire k Melawi, auquel, dans notre second voyage, nous 
avions employds dix-huit jours.” 




NOTES. 173 

(89.) Pa^e 113. — “ Those mighty statues, that fling their sha. 
dows.'' — “ Elies ont prfes de viiigt. metres (61 pieds) d’eldvation ; et 
an lever du soleil, leurs ombres im menses s’etendent au loin sur la 
chaine Libvenne.” Description generale de Thebes, par Messrs. 
JolLois et Desvilliers. 

(90.) Page 118. — “ Mountain of the Birds'^ — There has been 
much controversy among the Arabian writers, with respect to the 
site of this mountain, for which see Quatremere, tom. 1. art Anioun. 

(91.) Page 121. — “ The hand of labour had succeeded,'' ^c. — The 
monks of Mount Sinai (Shaw say.s) have covered over near four 
acres of the naked rocks with fruitful gardens and orchards. 

(92.) Page 122. — “ The image of a head." — There was usually, 
Teriullian tells us, the image of Christ on the communion-cups. 

(93.) Ib. — ^'Kissed her forehead." — “ We are rather disposed to 
infer,” says the present Bishop of Lincoln, in his very sensible work 
on Tertullian, “ that, at the conclusion of all their meetings for the 
purpose of devotion, the early Christians were accustomed to give 
the kiss of peace, in token of the brotherly love subsisting between 
them.” 

(94.) Page 123. — “ Come thus secretly before daybreak." — It was 
among the accusations of Celsus against the Christians, that they 
held their assemblies privately and contrary to law ; and one of the 
speakers in the curious work of Minucius Felix calls the Christians 
“ latebrosa et lucifugax natio.” 

(95.) Page 124. — “ In the middle of the Seven Valleys."— See 
Macrizy's account of these valleys, given by Quatremere, tom. 1. 
p. 450. 

(96.) Ib. — “ Red lakes of Nitria." — For a striking description of 
this region, see “ Rameses," a work which, though in general too 
technical and elaborate, shows, in many passages, to what pic. 
turesque effects the scenery and mythology of Egypt may be made 
subservient. 

(97.) Page 125. — “ In the neighbourhood of Antinoe." — From the 
po.sition assigned to Antinoe in this work, we should conclude that it 
extended much farther to the north, than the few ruins of it that re- 
main would seem to indicate, — so as to render the distance between 
the city and the Mountain of the Birds considerably less than what 
it appears to be at present. 

(98.) Page 127. — “ Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun." 
— “ Conjunctio soils cum luna, quod est veluti utriusque connubium.” 
Jablonski. 


16 * 


174 


NOTES 


(99.) Page 129. — “ Of his walks a lion is the companion.^^ — M, 
Chateaubriand has introduced Paul and his lion into the “ Martyrs,’^ 
liv. 11. 

(100.) Page 133. — “ A swallow, <^c. — “ Je vis dans le ddsert des 
hirondelles d’un gris clair comme le sable sur lequel elles lent.” 
Denon. 

(101.) Page 134. — “ The comet that once desolated this worlds— 
In alluding to Whiston’s idea of a comet having caused the delug^ 
M. Girard, having remarked that the word Typhon means a deluge, 
adds, “ On ne pent entendre par le terns du regne de Typhon que 
celui pendant lequel le deluge inonda la terre, terns pendant lequel on 
dot observer la combte qui I’occasionna, et dont I’apparition fut, non 
seulement pour les peuples de I’Egypte, et de I’Ethiopie, mas encore 
pour tous les peuples le prdsage funeste de leur destruction presque 
totale.” Description de la Vallee de V Egarement. 

(102.) Page 135. — “/re which the Spirtt of my dream,'' ^c . — 
” Many people,” said Origen, “ have been brought over to Christianity 
by the Spirit of God giving a sudden turn to their minds, and otfer- 
ing visions to them either by day or night.” On this Jortin remarks ; 
— “ Why should it bethought improbable that Pagans of good dispo. 
sitions, but not free from prejudices, should have been called by di. 
vine admonitions, by dreams or visions, which might be a support to 
Christianity in those days of distress ?” 

(103.) Page 137. — “ One of those earthen cups." — Palladius, whlo^ 
lived soTne time in Egypt, describes the monk Ptolemseus, who in- 
habited the desert of Scete, as collecting in earthen cups the abun- 
dant dew from the rocks.” Bibliothec. Pat. tom. 13. 

(104.) Page 138. — “ It was to preserve, he said," ^c. — The brief 
sketch here given of the .Jewish dispensation agrees very much with 
the view taken of it by Dr. Sumner, in the first chapters of his elo- 
quent work, the “ Records of the Creation.” 

(105.) Page 139. — “ In vain did I seek the promise of vnrnortaU 
ity." — “ It is impossible to deny,” says Dr. Sumner, “ that the sanc- 
tions of the Mosaic Law are altogether temporal It is, in- 

deed, one of the facts that can only be explained by acknowledging 
that he really acted under a divine commission, promulgating a tem- 
porary law for a peculiar purpose,” — a much more candid and sensi- 
ble way of treating this very difficult point, than by either endeavour- 
ing, like Warburton, to escape from it into a paradox, or, still worse, 
contriving, like Dr. Graves, to increase its difficulty by explanation. 
V. “ On the Pentateuch." See also Horne's Introduction, &,c. vol. i. 
p. 226. 

(106.) Ib. — “ All are of the dust," ^c. — While Voltaire, Volney, 
&.C. refer to the Ecclesiastes, as abounding with tenets of materialism 


% 


NOTES 


175 


and Epicurism, Mr. Des. Voeux and others find in it strong proofs of 
belief in a future state. The ehief difficulty lies in the chapter from 
which this text is quoted ; and the mode of construction by which 
some writers attempt to get rid of it, — namely, by putting these texts 
into the mouth of a foolish reasoner, — appears forced and gratuitous. 
V. Dr. Hales's Analysis. 

(107.) Page 141. — “ The noblest and first-created'' ^c. — This 
^opinion of the Hermit may be supposed to have been derived from 
his master Origen ; but it is not easy to ascertain the exact doctrine 
of Origen on this subject. In the Treatise on Prayer attributed to 
him, he asserts that God the Father alone should be invoked, — 
wliich, .'■ays Bayle, is to “ encherir sur les Heresies des Sociniens.” 
Notwithstanding this, however, and some other indications of, what 
was afterwards called, Arianism, (such as the opinion of the divinity 
being received by communication, which Milner asserts to have been 
held by this Father,) Origen was one of the authorities quoted by 
Athanasius in support of his high doctrines of co-eternity and co- 
essentiality. What Priestley says is, perhaps, the best solution of 
these inconsistencies : — “ Origen, as well as Clemens Alexandrinus, 
has been thought to favour the Arian principles ; but he did it only in 
words, and not in ideas.” — Early Opinions, &c. Whatever uncer- 
tainty, however, there may exist with respect to the opinion of Origen 
himself on this subject, there is no doubt that the doctrines of his 
immediate followers were, at least, Anti-Athanasian. “ So many 
Bishops of Africa,” says Priestley, “ were, at this period (between 
the year 255 and 258,) Unitarians, that Athanasius says, ‘ The Son 
of God’ — meaning his divinity — ‘ was scarcely any longer preached 
in the churches.’ ” 

(108.) Ib. — “ The restoration of the whole human race to purity 
and happiness." — This benevolent doctrine — which not only goes far 
to solve the great problem of moral and physical evil, but which 
would, if received more generally, tend to soften the spirit of uncha- 
ritableness, so fatally prevalent among Christian sects — was main- 
tained by that great light of the early Church, Origen, and has not 
wanted supporters among more modern Theologians. That Tillotson 
was inclined to the opinion appears from his sermon preached before 
the queen, f’aley is supposed to have held the same amiable doc- 
trijie ; and Newton (the author of the work on the Prophecies) is 
also amofBg the supporters of it. For a full account of the arguments 
in favour of this opinion, derived both from reason and the expre.ss 
language of Scripture, see Dr. Southwood Smith's very interesting 
work, “ On the Divine Government.” See also Magee on Atone- 
meat, where the doctrine of the advocates of Universal Restoration 
is thus briefly, and, I believe, fairly explained : — “ Beginning with 
the existence of an infinitely powerful, wise, and good Being, as the 
first and fundamental principle of rational religion, they pronounce 
the essence of this Being to be love, and from this infer, as a demon- 
strable consequence, that none of the creatures formed by such a, 
Being will ever be made eternally miserable Since God (they 


176 


NOTES 


say) would act unjustly in inflicting eternal misery for temporary 
crimes, the sufferings of the wicked can be but remedial, and will 
terminate in a complete purification from moral disorder, and in their 
ultimate restoration to virtue and happiness.” 

(109.) Page 141. — “ Glistened over its silver letters.^* — The Codex 
Cottonianus of the New Testament is written in silver letters on a 
purple ground. The Codex Cottonianus of the Septuagint version of 
the Old Testament is supposed to be the identical copy that belonged 
to Origen. 

(110.) Page 144. — “ The white garment she wore, and the ring 
of gold on her finger'^ — See, for the custom among the early Chris, 
tians of wearing white for a few days after baptism, Ambros. de Myst. 
— With respect to the ring, the Bishop of Lincoln says, in his work 
on Tcrtullian, “ The natural inference from these works {Tertull. de 
Pudicitid) appears to be, that a ring used to be given in baptism ; 
but I have found no other trace of such a custom.” 

(111.) Page 145. — '^Stunted marigold,'*' ^c. — ‘‘ Les Mesemhry. 
anthevium nodiflorum et Zygophyllum coccineum, plantes grasses 
dcs deserts, rejetees &, cause de leur kcrcte par les chameaux, les 
chevres, et les gazelles.” ill. Delile upon the plants of Egypt. 

A/ 

112.) Page 148. — I have observed in my walks." — “Je 
marquai avec une reflexion triste, qu’un animal de proie accompagne 
presque toujours les pas de ce joli et frele individu.” 

(113.) Page 150. — “ Some denier of Christ." — “ Those Christians 
who sacrificed to idols to save themselves were called by various 
names, Thurificati, Sacrificati, Mittentes, Negatores, &c. Baronius 
■ mentions a bishop of this period (253,) Marcellinus, who, yielding to 
the threats of the Gentiles, threw incense upon the altar, v. Arnob. 
contra Gent. lib. 7. 

(114.) Page 154. — “ The clear voice with which," ^c. — The merit 
of the confession “ Christianus sum,” or “ Christiana sum,” w^as con- 
siderably enhanced by the clearness and distinctness with which it 
was pronounced. Eusebius mentions the martyr Vetius as making 

it XaiiTTporarr] (pijipri. 

(115.) Page 158. — “ The band round the young Christian's brow." 
— We find poisonous crowns mentioned by Pliny, under the designa- 
tion of “ coronas ferales.” Paschalius, too, gives the following ac- 
count of these “ deadly garlands,” as he calls them ; — “ Sed mirum 
est tarn salutare inventum humanam nequitiam reperisse, quomodo 
ad nefarios usus traducent. Nempe, repertae sunt nefandae coronae 
harum, quas dixi, tarn salubrium per nornen quidem et speciera irni- 
tatrices, at re et efifectu ferales, atque adeo capitis, cui imponuntur, 
interfectrices.” De Coronis. 


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A Guide to the Knoivledge of Life^ 

Vegetable and Animal: Being a Comprehensive 
Manual of Ph^^siology, viewed in relation to the 
maintenance of health. By Kobert James Mann, 
M. D. Kevised and corrected. 

Extract from the Preface. 

“In carrying out his plan of preparing a course of physiological in- 
struction that shall be adapted equally to the wants of schools and of 
the public at large, the author has deemed it best to address himself 
immediately to the reason and intelligence of his readers. He has en- 
deavored first to teach the broad principles upon which organization 
is based, and then to point out inferentially how these broad principles 
apply to sanitary regulations and considerations. The advantage of this 
proceeding over any more dogmatic handling of the subject, is that the 
student becomes trained by it to meet any new combinations of circum- 
stances that may occur in life, with a fair chance of seeing their bearing 
correctly. He can apply broad principles in a thousand different ways, 
as unforeseen occasions arise. But particular and definite directions are 
liable in the ever-varying complications of social existence, to fail hiii^t 
his greatest need. It is obviously the better course that the understanding 
should be possessed with the reason of things, and should be then left to 
make its own practical arrangements in accordance with its acquired in- 
sight, rather than that it should be told merely that this or that ought to 
be done. Accordingly, the “ Guide to the Knowledge of Life” treats of 
vitality in the broadest and most philosophic sense. The chemical and phy- 
sical laws that are concerned with the work of organization, are first ex- 
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structure are then indicated : and next the material composition of the 
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and the cause and meaning of premature decay, are viewed in relation 
to remedial and preventive measures. The “ Guide to the Knowledge 
OF Life” is, therefore, a comprehensive statement of the fundamental 
principles of physiological and hygieinal science, fitted for the general 
'eader and for educational use.” 


PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS & CO., NEW-TORK. 

MEW AMO VALUABLE BOOK FOR FAMILIES AMD SCHOOLS. 



OF 


/amilinr filings. 

♦ 

A GUIDE TO THE SCIENTIFIC KNOWLEDGE 

OF THINGS FAMILIAR. By the Rev. Dr. Brewer, Head 
Master of King’s College School, Norwich. Carefully revised and 
adapted for use in Families and Schools in the United States. 
One thick volume. Price 62-J cents. 

This Volume contains about 2 000 Questions and Answers, explaining, 
in the most concise and intelligible manner, the phenomena of every-day 
occurrence. It contains an amount of useful information never before 
collected in a shape so convenient for study, anA so easy for reference. 

Extract from Preface, — “No science is generally more interesting than that which explains the 
common phenomena of life. We see that salt and siiow are both white, a rose red, leaves green, and 
the violet a deep purple ; but how tew persons ever ask the reason why I We know that a flute pro- 
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luminous — that water boils when subjected to heat, and freezes from cold ; but when a child looks up 
vato our face and asks us * why,* — how many times is it silenced with a frown, or called ‘ very foolish 
for asking such silly questions!’ The object of the present book is to explain about two thousand of 
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submitted to the revision of gentlemen of acknowledged reputation for scientific attainments. The 
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year 1848, is an incontrovertible proof of its acceptability ; and has induced the author to spare neither 
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amiisiug to tlie young, as well as to those of maturer life.” 

The following extracts, from a few of the notices of the Guide to Science” in 
some of the leading journals of the day, will show the estimation with which it 
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Dr, Brewer’s Guide to Science. — Educational Times. 

“It is quite impossible to dip into this charming little volume, open it at 
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army which is now organizing for the warfare against ignorance and prejudi4»^ 


PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS 6i CO., NEW YORK. 


A Guide to Roman History ; 

From the Earliest Period to the close of the 
Western Empire. By Eev. Dr. Brewer. Care- 
fully revised, corrected, and adapted for the use 
of Families and Schools in the United States. 
Arranged in Question and Answer, on^'the same 
plan and size as “ The Guide to Scientific Know- 
ledge.” ^ 

“ This Manual of Eoman History contains an account of the rise, 
progress, and decline of the Roman nation ; the causes which 
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political constitutions, laws, customs, and habits : a biographical 
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foreigners whose names are familiar to the classic reader, or y^se 
influence affected this wonderful people. 

“ As history serves a twofold purpose — illustration as well as in- 
struction — numerous anecdotes and legends have been introduced, 
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ancient and modern authors, 

“The accent and pronunciation of proper names and Latin 
words, and the modern names and situations of ancient places, 
are given, and every method has been adopted to render this 
‘Guide to Roman History’ a thorough, complete, and interesting 
work.” 


“The discrimination with which. the mythical traditions that 
have so long passed as truth, are separated from the authentic 
history, is an excellent feature of the work. Its conciseness, its 
clear arrangement, and its accuracy of detail, recommend it to the 
practical teacher.” — Tribune. 


“Dr. Brewer’s book is well prepared according to its plan, and 
is printed in a clear, inviting type. The Latin names have the ac- 
cented syllable marked in most cases, a very excellent thing.” — 
N. Y. Mirror. 





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